The Dawn Is Not Distant, Nor Is

A Great Sorrow, Like A Mariner's Quadrant, Brings The Sun At Noon Down To The Horizon, And We Learn Where We Are On The Sea Of Life.

Dreams Or Illusions, Call Them What You Will, They Lift Us From The Commonplace Of Life To Better Things.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

Nor Deem The Irrevocable Past As Wholly Wasted, Wholly Vain, If, Rising On Its Wrecks, At Last To Something Nobler We Attain.

The Smoking Flax Before It Burst To Flame Was Quenched By Death, And Broken The Bruised Reed.