Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most

The Corn That Makes The Holy Bread By Which The Soul Of Man Is Fed, The Holy Bread, The Food Unpriced, Thy Everlasting Mercy, Christ.

I Have Seen The Lady April Bringing The Daffodils, Bringing The Springing Grass And The Soft Warm April Rain.

I Must Down To The Seas Again, To The Vagrant Gypsy Life, To The Gull's Way And The Whale's Way Where The Wind's Like A Whetted Knife And All I Ask Is A Merry Yarn From A Laughing Fellow Rover, And Quiet Sleep And A Sweet Dream When The Long Trick's Over.

And May We Find When Ended Is The Page, Death But A Tavern On Our Pilgrimage.

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.