How Like They Are To Human Things!

Silently, One By One, In The Infinite Meadows Of Heaven, Blossomed The Lovely Stars, The Forget-me-nots Of The Angels.

Races, Better Than We, Have Leaned On Her Wavering Promise, Having Naught Else But Hope.

Well I Know The Secret Places, And The Nests In Hedge And Tree; At What Doors Are Friendly Faces, In What Hearts Are Thoughts Of Me.

We Often Excuse Our Own Want Of Philanthropy By Giving The Name Of Fanaticism To The More Ardent Zeal Of Others.

Were A Star Quenched On High,for Ages Would Its Light,still Travelling Downward From The Sky,shine On Our Mortal Sight. So When A Great Man Dies,for Years Beyond Our Ken,the Light He Leaves Behind Him Liesupon The Paths Of Men.