Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

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

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

The noonday quiet holds the hill.