The More Keenly We Are Awake To

A Little While The Rose, And After That The Thorn; An Hour Of Dewy Morn, And Then The Glamour Goes. Ah, Love In Beauty Born, A Little While The Rose!

The Storm Is Ended! The Impartial Sunlaughs Down Upon The Battle Lost And Won,and Crowns The Triumph Of The Cloudy Hostin Rolling Lines Retreating To The Coast.

For Ever So Our Thoughtful Hearts Repeaton Fields Of Triumph Dirges Of Defeat;and Still We Turn On Gala-days To Treadamong The Rustling Memories Of The Dead.

A Peace That Depends On Fear Is Nothing But A Suppressed War.

Happiness Is Inward, And Not Outward; And So, It Does Not Depend On What We Have, But On What We Are.