I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.