But Beauty Vanishes; Beauty Passes; However Rare

Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Brier's Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are-- Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Without Imagination Of The One Kind Or Of The Other, Mortal Existence Is Indeed A Dreary And Prosaic Business... Illumined By The Imagination, Our Life, Whatever Its Defeats - Is A Never-ending Unforeseen Strangeness And Adventure And Mystery.

Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red, Rode Their Horses Up To Bed.

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely, Every Hour

His Are The Quiet Steeps Of Dreamland, The Waters Of No-more-pain; His Ram's Bell Rings 'neath An Arch Of Stars, "rest, Rest, And Rest Again.