One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.