Pride Of The Dewy Morning, The Swain's

Sweet Is The Infant's Waking Smile, And Sweet The Old Man's Rest-- But Middle Age By No Fond Wile, No Soothing Calm Is Blest.

For As Fire Is Kindled By Fire, So Is A Poet's Mind Kindled By Contact With A Brother Poet.

Blest Are The Pure In Heart, For They Shall See Our God. The Secret Of The Lord Is Theirs; Their Soul Is Christ's Abode.

The Deeds We Do, The Words We Say,into Still Air They Seem To Fleet;we Count Them Ever Past;but They Shall Last -in The Dread Judgment Theyand We Shall Meet.

The Watchful Mother Tarries Nigh Though Sleep Have Closed Her Infant's Eye, For Should He Wake, And Find Her Gone.