The Bearings Of This Observation Lays In

At The Great Iron Gate Of The Churchyard He Stopped And Looked In. He Looked Up At The High Tower Spectrally Resisting The Wind, And He Looked Round At The White Tombstones, Like Enough To The Dead In Their Winding-sheets, And He Counted The Nine Tolls Of The Clock-bell.

And Thus Ever By Day And Night, Under The Sun And Under The Stars, Climbing The Dusty Hills And Toiling Along The Weary Plains, Journeying By Land And Journeying By Sea, Coming And Going So Strangely, To Meet And To Act And React On One Another, Move All We Restless Travellers Through The Pilgrimage Of Life.

So, Throughout Life, Our Worst Weaknesses And Meannesses Are Usually Committed For The Sake Of The People Whom We Most Despise.

The Blossom Is Blighted, The Leaf Is Withered, The God Of Day Goes Down Upon The Dreary Scene, And In Short You Are For Ever Floored.

The Ocean Asks For Nothing But Those Who Stand By Her Shores Gradually Attune Themselves To Her Rhythm.