Philistine Must Have Originally Meant, In The

Now The Great Winds Shoreward Blow Now The Salt Tides Seaward Flow Now The Wild White Horses Play Champ And Chafe And Toss In The Spray.

The Heart Less Bounding At Emotion New, The Hope, Once Crushed, Less Quick To Spring Again.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers Of Our Casual Creeds, Who Never Deeply Felt, Nor Clearly Will'd, Whose Insight Never Has Borne Fruit In Deeds, Whose Vague Resolves Never Have Been Fulfill'd; For Whom Each Year We See Breeds New Beginnings, Disappointments New; Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose To-morrow The Ground Won To-day Ah! Do Not We, Wanderer! Await It Too?

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another!