What Seems To Us But Dim Funeral

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

The Country Is Lyric, The Town Dramatic. When Mingled, They Make The Most Perfect Musical Drama.

Round About What Is, Lies A Whole Mysterious World Of Might Be, A Psychological Romance Of Possibilities And Things That Do Not Happen.

Let Us Labor For An Inward Stillness-- An Inward Stillness And An Inward Healing. That Perfect Silence Where The Lips And Heart Are Still, And We No Longer Entertain Our Own Imperfect Thoughts And Vain Opinions, But God Alone Speaks To Us And We Wait In Singleness Of Heart That We May Know His Will, And In The Silence Of Our Spirits, That We May Do His Will And Do That Only

The Bells Themselves Are The Best Of Preachers, Their Brazen Lips Are Learned Teachers, From Their Pulpits Of Stone, In The Upper Air, Sounding Aloft, Without Crack Or Flaw, Shriller Than Trumpets Under The Law, Now A Sermon And Now A Prayer.