There Is Nothing The Body Suffers Which

The Man Who Has No Mind Of His Own Lends It To The Priests.

Earth, The Mother Of All, Moves On Her Stedfast Way, Gathering, Flinging, Sowing. Mortals, We Live In Her Day, She In Her Children Is Growing.

Jealousy Is Love Bed Of Burning Snarl.

That Rarest Gift To Beauty, Common Sense!

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.