Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

And There My Little Doves Did Sit With Feathers Softly Brown And Glittering Eyes That Showed Their Right To General Nature's Deep Delight.

"there Is No God," The Foolish Saith, But None, "there Is No Sorrow." And Nature Oft The Cry Of Faith In Bitter Need Will Borrow: Eyes Which The Preacher Could Not School, By Wayside Graves Are Raised; And Lips Say, "god Be Pitiful," Who Ne'er Said, "god Be Praised."

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless.

Some People Always Sigh In Thanking God.

Sing, Seraph With The Glory! Heaven Is High. Sing, Poet With The Sorrow! Earth Is Low. The Universe's Inward Voices Cry "amen" To Either Song Of Joy And Woe. Sing, Seraph, Poet! Sing On Equally!