O Fateful Flower Beside The Rill- The

Reign, And Keep Life In This Our Deep Desireour Only Greatness Is That We Aspire.

When Sparrows Build And The Leaves Break Forth My Old Sorrow Wakes And Cries.

How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How Long The Sorrowful!

Work Is Its Own Best Earthly Meed, Else Have We None More Than The Sea-born Throng Who Wrought Those Marvellous Isles That Bloom Afar.

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.