Oh, talk as we may of beauty as a thing to be chiselled from marble or wrought out on canvas, speculate as we may upon its colors and outlines, what is it but an intellectual abstraction, after all? The heart feels a beauty of another kind; looking through the outward environment, it discovers a deeper and more real love-liness.

Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.

Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant.

For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been'.

Nothing before, nothing behind; The steps of faith Fall on the seeming void, and find The Rock beneath.

He is wisest, who only gives, True to himself, the best he can: Who drifting on the winds of praise, The inward monitor obeys. And with the boldness that confuses fear Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience steer.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.