The Market-place, The Eager Love Of Gain,

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

O Lovely River Of Yvette! O Darling River! Like A Bride, Some Dimpled, Bashful, Fair Lisette Thou Goest To Wed The Orge's Tide. O Lovely River Yvette! O Darling Stream! On Balanced Wings The Wood-birds Sang The Chansonnette That Here A Wandering Poet Sings.

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

The Course Of My Long Life Hath Reached At Last In Fragile Bark Over A Tempestuous Sea The Common Harbor, Where Must Rendered Be Account For All The Actions Of The Past.