Nature Has No Outline. Imagination Has.

Every Tear From Every Eyebecomes A Babe In Eternity.

And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time Walk Upon England's Mountains Green? And Was The Holy Lamb Of God On England's Pleasant Pastures Seen?

Come Live, And Be Merry, And Join With Me, To Sing The Sweet Chorus Of 'ha Ha He!

Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau! Mock On, Mock On: 'tis All In Vain! You Throw The Sand Against The Wind, And The Wind Blows It Back Again. And Every Sand Becomes A Gem Reflected In The Beams Divine; Blown Back They Blind The Mocking Eye, But Still In Israel's Paths They Shine. The Atoms Of Democritus And Newton's Particles Of Light Are Sands Upon The Red Sea Shore, Where Israel's Tents Do Shine So Bright.

The Fields From Islington To Marybone, To Primrose Hill And Saint John's Wood, Were Builded Over With Pillars Of Gold; And There Jerusalem's Pillars Stood.