Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary

The Stormy March Has Come At Last, With Winds And Clouds And Changing Skies; I Hear The Rushing Of The Blast That Through The Snowy Valley Flies.

Ah, Why Should We, In The World's Riper Years, Neglect God's Ancient Sanctuaries, And Adore Only Among The Crowd And Under Roofs That Our Frail Hands Have Raised?

And Suns Grow Meek, And The Meek Suns Grow Brief, And The Year Smiles As It Draws Near Its Death.

Beautiful Isles! Beneath The Sunset Skies Tall, Silver-shafted Palm-trees Rise, Between Full Orange-trees That Shade The Living Colonade.

Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste.