When She Had Passed, It Seemed Like

How Wonderful Is The Human Voice! It Is Indeed The Organ Of The Soul. The Intellect Of Man Is Enthroned Visibly On His Forehead And In His Eye, And The Heart Of Man Is Written On His Countenance, But The Soul, The Soul Reveals Itself In The Voice Only.

The Natural Alone Is Permanent.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

The Bells Themselves Are The Best Of Preachers, Their Brazen Lips Are Learned Teachers, From Their Pulpits Of Stone, In The Upper Air, Sounding Aloft, Without Crack Or Flaw, Shriller Than Trumpets Under The Law, Now A Sermon And Now A Prayer.

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.