Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still

The Story, From Beginning To End, I Found Again In A Heart Of A Friend.

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

I Cannot Believe Any Man Can Be Perfectly Well In Body, Who Has Much Labor Of The Mind To Perform.

We Have Not Wings We Cannot Soar; But, We Have Feet To Scale And Climb, By Slow Degrees, By More And More, The Cloudy Summits Of Our Time.

The Twilight Is Sad And Cloudy, The Wind Blows Wild And Free, And Like The Wings Of Sea-birds Flash The White Caps Of The Sea.