France, Famed In All Great Arts, In

The Pursuit Of Perfection, Then, Is The Pursuit Of Sweetness And Light.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak?

Time, So Complain'd Of, Who To No One Man Shows Partiality, Brings Round To All Men Some Undimm'd Hours.

Only--but This Is Rare-- When A Beloved Hand Is Laid In Ours, When, Jaded With The Rush And Glare Of The Interminable Hours, Our Eyes Can In Another's Eyes Read Clear, When Our World-deafen'd Ear Is By The Tones Of A Loved Voice Caress'd-- A Bolt Is Shot Back Somewhere In Our Breast, And A Lost Pulse Of Feeling Stirs Again. The Eye Sinks Inward, And The Heart Lies Plain, And What We Mean, We Say, And What We Would, We Know. A Man Becomes Aware Of His Life's Flow, And Hears Its Winding Murmur; And He Sees The Meadows Where It Glides, The Sun, The Breeze.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak? Are Even Lovers Powerless To Reveal To One Another What Indeed They Feel? I Knew The Mass Of Men Conceal'd Their Thoughts, For Fear That If Reveal'd They Would By Other Men Be Met With Blank Indifference, Or With Blame Reproved; I Knew They Lived And Moved Trick'd In Disguises, Alien To The Rest Of Men, And Alien To Themselves - And Yet The Same Heart Beats In Every Human Breast!