Dim Eclipse, Disastrous Twilight.

How Often From The Steep Of Echoing Hill Or Thicket Have We Heard Celestial Voices To The Midnight Air, Sole, Or Responsive Each To Other's Note, Singing Their Great Creator?

I Was All Ear, And Took In Strains That Might Create A Soul Under The Ribs Of Death.

Let Us No More Contend, Nor Blame Each Other, Blamed Enough Elsewhere, But Strive, In Offices Of Love, How We May Lighten Each Other's Burden.

Death Is The Golden Key That Opens The Palace Of Eternity.

Courtesy Which Oft Is Found In Lowly Sheds, With Smoky Rafters, Than In Tapestry Halls And Courts Of Princes, Where It First Was Named.