All Things Come Round To Him Who

Kind Messages, That Pass From Land To Land; Kind Letters, That Betray The Heart's Deep History, In Which We Feel The Pressure Of A Hand,-- One Touch Of Fire,--and All The Rest Is Mystery!

Thus, Seamed With Many Scars Bursting These Prison Bars, Up To Its Native Stars My Soul Ascended! There From The Flowing Bowl Deep Drinks The Warrior's Soul, Skoal! To The Northland! Skoal! Thus The Tale Ended.

This Is The Forest Primeval. The Murmuring Pines And The Hemlocks, Bearded With Moss, And In Garments Green, Indistinct In The Twilight, Stand Like Druids Of Eld, With Voices Sad And Prophetic, Stand Like Harpers Hoar, With Beards That Rest On Their Bosoms. Loud From Its Rocky Caverns, The Deep-voiced Neighboring Ocean Speaks, And In Accents Disconsolate Answers The Wail Of The Forest.

Every Great Poem Is In Itself Limited By Necessity, But In Its Suggestions Unlimited And Infinite.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.