Who Dares To Say That He Alone

Standing, With Reluctant Feet, Where The Brook And River Meet, Womanhood And Childhood Fleet!

I Shot An Arrow Into The Air, It Fell To Earth, I Knew Not Where.

For Bells Are The Voice Of The Church; They Have Tones That Touch And Search The Hearts Of Young And Old.

It Is The Harvest Moon! On Gilded Vanes And Roofs Of Villages, On Woodland Crests And Their Aerial Neighborhoods Of Nests Deserted, On The Curtained Window-panes Of Rooms Where Children Sleep, On Country Lanes And Harvest-fields, Its Mystic Splendor Rests.

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.