The Snow Had Begun In The Gloaming,

Blessed Are They Who Have Nothing To Say And Who Cannot Be Persuaded To Say It.

For Men In Earnest Have No Time To Waste In Patching Fig-leaves For The Naked Truth.

The Wisest Man Could Ask No More Of Fate Than To Be Simple, Modest, Manly, True, Safe From The Many, Honored By The Few; Nothing To Court In Church, Or World, Or State, But Inwardly In Secret To Be Great.

We Look At Death Through The Cheap-glazed Windows Of The Flesh, And Believe Him The Monster Which The Flawed And Cracked Glass Represents Him.

A Beggar Through The World Am I, From Place To Place I Wander By. Fill Up My Pilgrim's Scrip For Me, For Christ's Sweet Sake And Charity.