Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

Lo! While We Are Gazing, In Swifter Haste Stream Down The Snows, Till The Air Is White, As, Myriads By Myriads Madly Chased, They Fling Themselves From Their Shadowy Height. The Fair, Frail Creatures Of Middle Sky, What Speed They Make, With Their Grave So Nigh; Flake After Flake, To Lie In The Dark And Silent Lake!

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.

Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest Gold And Crimson.

Winning Isn't Everything, But It Beats Anything In Second Place.

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