When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Nothing that is can pause or stay.

The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!