Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

Let us be merciful as well as just.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

You would attain to the divine perfection.

It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.

The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts