Our Hearts, Our Hopes, Our Prayers, Our

In The Mouths Of Many Men Soft Words Are Like Roses That Soldiers Put Into The Muzzles Of Their Muskets On Holidays.

Where, Twisted Round The Barren Oak, The Summer Vine In Beauty Clung, And Summer Winds The Stillness Broke, The Crystal Icicle Is Hung.

Then From The Neighboring Thicket The Mocking-bird, Wildest Of Singers, Swinging Aloft On A Willow Spray That Hung O'er The Water, Shook From His Little Throat Such Floods Of Delirious Music, That The Whole Air And The Woods And The Waves Seemed Silent To Listen.

An Angel Visited The Green Earth, And Took A Flower Away.

O Music! Language Of The Soul, Of Love, Of God To Man; Bright Beam From Heaven Thrilling, That Lightens Sorrow's Weight.