How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How

Yet There Are Some Resting-places, / Life's Untroubled Interludes; / Times When Neither Past Nor Future / On The Soul's Deep Calm Intrudes.

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.

And Old Affront Will Stir The Heart Through Years Of Rankling Pain.

When Our Thoughts Are Born, Though They Be Good And Humble, One Should Mind How They Are Reared, Or Some Will Go Astray And Shame Their Mother.

Quoth The Ocean, "dawn! O Fairest, Clearest, Touch Me With Thy Golden Fingers Bland; For I Have No Smile Till Thou Appearest For The Lovely Land.