Men Of Culture Are The True Apostles

Say, Has Some Wet Bird-haunted English Lawn Lent It The Music Of Its Trees At Dawn?

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another! For The World, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams, So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy, Nor Love, Nor Light, Nor Certitude, Nor Peace, Nor Help For Pain; And We Are Here As On A Darkling Plain Swept With Confused Alarms Of Struggle And Flight, Where Ignorant Armies Clash By Night.

Let The Long Contention Cease! / Geese Are Swans, And Swans Are Geese.

Culture Is The Passion For Sweetness And Light, And (what Is More) The Passion For Making Them Prevail.

On Sundays, At The Matin-chime, The Alpine Peasants, Two And Three, Climb Up Here To Pray; Burghers And Dames, At Summer's Prime, Ride Out To Church From Chamberry, Dight With Mantles Gay, But Else It Is A Lonely Time Round The Church Of Brou.