When Christ Ascended Triumphantly From Star To

The Poor Too Often Turn Away Unheard, From Hearts That Shut Against Them With A Sound That Will Be Heard In Heaven.

We Waste Our Best Years In Distilling The Sweetest Flowers Of Life Into Potions Which, After All, Do Not Immortalize, But Only Intoxicate.

O Gift Of God! O Perfect Day: Whereon Shall No Man Work, But Play; Whereon It Is Enough For Me, Not To Be Doing, But To Be!

And The Bright Faces Of My Young Companions Are Wrinkled Like My Own, Or Are No More.

All Are Architects Of Fate, Working In These Walls Of Time; Some With Massive Deeds And Great, Some With Ornaments Of Rhyme.