Proud, Then, Clear-eyed And Laughing, Go To

Down The Blue Night The Unending Columns Press In Noiseless Tumult, Break And Wave And Flow

Ponder Deep Wisdom, Dark Or Clear, Each Secret Fishy Hope Or Fear. Fish Say, They Have Their Stream And Pond; But Is There Anything Beyond? This Life Cannot Be All, They Swear, For How Unpleasant, If It Were! One May Not Doubt That, Somehow, Good Shall Come Of Water And Of Mud; And, Sure, The Reverent Eye Must See A Purpose In Liquidity.

They Say That The Dead Die Not, But Remain Near To The Rich Heirs Of Their Grief And Mirth. I Think They Ride The Calm Mid-heaven, As These, In Wise Majestic Melancholy Train, And Watch The Moon, And The Still-raging Seas, And Men, Coming And Going On The Earth.

Youth Is Stranger Than Fiction.

In Your Arms Was Still Delight, Quiet As A Street At Night; And Thoughts Of You, I Do Remember, Were Green Leaves In A Darkened Chamber, Were Dark Clouds In A Moonless Sky.