Safe In The Hallowed Quiets Of The

I Would Hardly Change The Sorrowful Words Of The Poets For Their Glad Ones. Tears Dampen The Strings Of The Lyre, But They Grow The Tensor For It, And Ring Even The Clearer And More Ravishingly.

Children Are God's Apostles, Sent Forth, Day By Day, To Preach Of Love, And Hope, And Peace.

Toward No Crimes Have Men Shown Themselves So Cold- Bloodedly Cruel As In Punishing Differences Of Belief.

And The Choice Goes By Forever 'twixt That Darkness And That Light.

Dear Common Flower, That Grow'st Beside The Way, Fringing The Dusty Road With Harmless Gold, First Pledge Of Blithesome May, Which Children Pluck, And, Full Of Pride Uphold.