O It Is Pleasant, With A Heart

Ignorance Seldom Vaults Into Knowledge, But Passes Into It Through An Intermediate State Of Obscurity, Even As Night Into Day Through Twilight.

God! Sing, Ye Meadow-streams, With Gladsome Voice! Ye Pine-groves, With Your Soft And Soul-like Sounds! And They Too Have A Voice, You Piles Of Snow, And In Their Perilous Fall Shall Thunder, God!

Our Own Heart, And Not Other Men's Opinion, Forms Our True Honor.

May All The Stars Hang Bright Above Her Dwelling, Silent As Though They Watched The Sleeping Earth!

That Gracious Thing, Made Up Of Tears And Light.