O Beautiful, Awful Summer Day, What Hast

The Emigrant's Way O'er The Western Desert Is Mark'd By Camp-fires Long Consum'd And Bones That Bleach In The Sunshine.

Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient Endurance Is Godlike.

Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

Kind Messages, That Pass From Land To Land; Kind Letters, That Betray The Heart's Deep History, In Which We Feel The Pressure Of A Hand,-- One Touch Of Fire,--and All The Rest Is Mystery!