Something The Heart Must Have To Cherish,

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

It Was Autumn, And Incessant Piped The Quails From Shocks And Sheaves, And, Like Living Coals, The Apples Burned Among The Withering Leaves.

Three Silences There Are: The First Of Speech, The Second Of Desire, The Third Of Thought.

Spake Full Well, In Language Quaint And Olden, One Who Dwelleth By The Castled Rhine, When He Called The Flowers, So Blue And Golden, Stars, That In Earth's Firmament Do Shine.

God's Voice Was Not In The Earthquake, Not In The Fire, Nor The Storm, But It Was In The Whispering Breezes.