The splendid discontent of God With chaos made the world. And from the discontent of man The worlds best progress springs.

There is nothing ridiculous in love.

How happy they are, in all seeming, How gay, or how smilingly proud, How brightly their faces are beaming, These people who make up the crowd!

The passion you forbade my lips to utter Will not be silenced. You must hear it in The sullen thunders when they roll and mutter: And when the tempest nears, with wail and din, I know your calm forgetfulness is broken, And to your heart you whisper, "He has spoken."

No one will grieve because your lips are dumb.

It stands in the light transfigured, It speaks from the heights above, "Each Soul Is Its Own Redeemer; There Is No Law But Love."

Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek And sought the mourner's side again. "Once more, dear lady, I must speak: Your last remaining son was slain Just at the closing of the fight; Twas he who sent me here to-night." "God knows," the man said afterward, "The fight itself was not so hard."