The Fireflies O'er The Meadow In Pulses

Whoever Can Endure Unmixed Delight, Whoever Can Tolerate Music And Painting And Poetry All In One, Whoever Wishes To Be Rid Of Thought And To Let The Busy Anvils Of The Brain Be Silent For A Time, Let Him Read In The "faery Queen."

Here Was A Type Of The True Elder Race, And One Of Plutarch's Men Talked With Us Face To Face.

And Blessed Are The Horny Hands Of Toil.

The Idol Is The Measure Of The Worshipper.

God Is Not Dumb, That He Should Speak No More; If Thou Hast Wanderings In The Wilderness And Find'st Not Sinai, 'tis Thy Soul Is Poor.