The World Hath Failed To Impart The

He Will Find One English Book And One Only, Where, As In The "iliad" Itself, Perfect Plainness Of Speech Is Allied With Perfect Nobleness; And That Book Is The Bible.

Weary Of Myself, And Sick Of Asking What I Am, And What I Ought To Be, At This Vessel's Prow I Stand, Which Bears Me Forwards, Forwards, O'er The Starlit Sea.

Physician Of The Iron Age, Goethe Has Done His Pilgrimage. He Took The Suffering Human Race, He Read Each Wound, Each Weakness Clear -- And Struck His Finger On The Place, And Said -- Thou Ailest Here, And Here.

The Sea Of Faith Was Once, Too, At The Full, And Round Earth's Shore Lay Like The Folds Of A Bright Girdle Furled. But Now I Only Hear Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar, Retreating, To The Breath Of The Night-wind, Down The Vast Edges Drear And Naked Shingles Of The World.

Weep Bitterly Over The Dead, For He Is Worthy, And Then Comfort Thyself; Drive Heaviness Away: Thou Shall Not Do Him Good, But Hurt Thyself.