Horrible To Say, In A Manner I

For Myself I Make No Secret, I Look Forward With Eager Desire To Seeing The Matchless Beauty Of Christ's Body In The Heavenly Light.

What Is All This Juice And All This Joy?

I Have Desired To Go Where Springs Not Fail, To Fields Where Flies No Sharp And Sided Hail And A Few Lilies Blow.

O The Mind, Mind Has Mountains; Cliffs Of Fall Frightful, Sheer, No-man-fathomed. Hold Them Cheap May Who Ne'er Hung There. Nor Does Long Our Small Durance Deal With That Steep Or Deep.

Lovely The Woods, Waters, Meadows, Combes, Vales, All The Air Things Wear That Build This World Of Wales.