I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless.

O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet, Thou Art Strange!

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless; That Only Men Incredulous Of Despair, Half-taught In Anguish, Through The Midnight Air Beat Upward To God's Throne In Loud Access Of Shrieking And Reproach

And Is It Not The Chief Good Of Money, The Being Free From The Need Of Thinking Of It?

With What Cracked Pitchers Go We To Deep Wells In This World!

Guess Now Who Holds Thee?'--'death,' I Said. But, There, The Silver Answer Rang, . . . 'not Death, But Love.