O Fateful Flower Beside The Rill- The

I Opened The Doors Of My Heart. And Behold, There Was Music Within And A Song, And Echoes Did Feed On The Sweetness, Repeating It Long. I Opened The Doors Of My Heart. And Behold, There Was Music That Played Itself Out In Aeolian Notes: Then Was Heard, As A Far-away Bell At Long Intervals Tolled.

There Is But Halting For The Wearied Foot; The Better Way Is Hidden. Faith Hath Failed; One Stronger Far Than Reason Mastered Her. It Is Not Reason Makes Faith Hard, But Life.

Such A Slender Moon, Going Up And Up, Waxing So Fast From Night To Night, And Swelling Like An Orange Flower-bud, Bright, Fated, Methought, To Round As To A Golden Cup, And Hold To My Two Lips Life's Best Of Wine.

The Moon Is Bleached As White As Wool, And Just Dropping Under; Every Star Is Gone But Three, And They Hang Far Asunder,-- There's A Sea-ghost All In Gray, A Tall Shape Of Wonder!

When Sparrows Build And The Leaves Break Forth My Old Sorrow Wakes And Cries.