Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace.

Low stir of leaves and dip of oars And lapsing waves on quiet shores.

Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will.

Rest if you must, but never quit.

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

The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.

This is truth the poet sings . . .