Oh, It's Home Again And Home Again,

Tact Is The Unsaid Part Of What You Think.

As Long As Habit And Routine Dictate The Pattern Of Living, New Dimensions Of The Soul Will Not Emerge.

Long Ago Apollo Called To Aristæus, Youngest Of The Shepherds, Saying, "i Will Make You Keeper Of My Bees." Golden Were The Hives, And Golden Was The Honey; Golden, Too, The Music, Where The Honey-makers Hummed Among The Trees.

Who Can Explain The Secret Pathos Of Nature's Loveliness? It Is A Touch Of Melancholy Inherited From Our Mother Eve. It Is An Unconscious Memory Of The Lost Paradise. It Is The Sense That Even If We Should Find Another Eden, We Would Not Be Fit To Enjoy It Perfectly Nor Stay In It Forever.

Heaven Is Blest With Perfect Rest, But The Blessing Of Earth Is Toil.