The noonday quiet holds the hill.

Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.