Tis The Hard Grey Weather Breeds Hard

In The Light Of Fuller Day, Of Purer Science, Holier Laws.

Three Fishers Went Sailing Away To The West, Away To The West As The Sun Went Down; Each Thought On The Woman Who Loved Him The Best, And The Children Stood Watching Them Out Of The Town.

Beauty Is God's Handwriting — A Wayside Sacrament; Welcome It In Every Fair Face, Every Fair Sky, Every Fair Flower, And Thank For It Him.

Gradually The Sunken Land Begins To Rise Again, And Falls Perhaps Again, And Rises Again After That, More And More Gently Each Time, Till As It Were The Panting Earth, Worn Out With The Fierce Passions Of Her Fiery Youth, Has Sobbed Herself To Sleep Once More, And This New World Of Man Is Made.

In The Four Hundred And Thirteenth Year Of The Christian Era, Some Three Hundred Miles Above Alexandria, The Young Monk Philammon Was Sitting On The Edge Of A Low Range Of Inland Cliffs, Crested With Drifting Sand.