And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.

But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere