Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.

I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong.

Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!

Peace hath higher tests of manhood, than battle ever knew.

The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame; Buy cheap, sell dear; eat. drink, and sleep down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant

I'll lift you and you lift me, and we'll both ascend together.