Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.

If God Hath Made This World So Fair, Where Sin And Death Abound, How Beautiful Beyond Compare Will Paradise Be Found!

Gashed With Honourable Scars,low In Glory's Lap They Lie;though They Fell, They Fell Like Stars,streaming Splendour Through The Sky.

To-morrow — Oh, 'twill Never Be, If We Should Live A Thousand Years! Our Time Is All To-day, To-day, The Same, Though Changed; And While It Flies With Still Small Voice The Moments Say: "to-day, To-day, Be Wise, Be Wise.

Blue Thou Art, Intensely Blue; Flower, Whence Came Thy Dazzling Hue?