Truth Illuminates And Gives Joy; And It

O Born In Days When Wits Were Fresh And Clear, And Life Ran Gaily As The Sparkling Thames; Before This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims, Its Heads O'ertax'd, Its Palsied Hearts, Was Rife.

Dreams Dawn And Fly: Friends Smile And Die, Like Spring Flowers. Our Vaunted Life Is One Long Funeral. Men Dig Graves, With Bitter Tears, For Their Dead Hopes; And All, Mazed With Doubts, And Sick With Fears, Count The Hours.

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.

Is It So Small A Thing To Have Enjoyed The Sun, To Have Lived Light In The Sky, To Have Loved, To Have Thought, To Have Done?

Weep Bitterly Over The Dead, For He Is Worthy, And Then Comfort Thyself; Drive Heaviness Away: Thou Shall Not Do Him Good, But Hurt Thyself.