It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind,

What Am I, Life? A Thing Of Watery Salt Held In Cohesion By Unresting Cells, Which Work They Know Not Why, Which Never Halt, Myself Unwitting Where Their Master Dwells?

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries; I Never Hear The West Wind But Tears Are In My Eyes. For It Comes From The West Lands, The Old Brown Hills, And April's In The West Wind, And Daffodils.

Lord, Give To Me Who Are Old And Rougher The Things That Little Children Suffer, And Let Keep Bright And Undefiled The Young Years Of The Little Child.

Love Is A Flame To Set The Will On Fire

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.