Father, O Father! What Do We Here

Heaven Is In A Grain Of Sand.

Does A Firm Persuasion That A Thing Is So, Make It So?

Come O'er The Eastern Hills, And Let Our Winds Kiss Thy Perfumed Garments; Let Us Taste Thy Morn And Evening Breath; Scatter Thy Pearls Upon Our Love-sick Land That Mourns For Thee.

Death Is Terrible, Tho' Borne On Angels' Wings!

The Soul Of Sweet Delight, Can Never Be Defiled.