Where Words Leave Off, Music Begins.

It Is An Ancient Story Yet Is It Ever New.

I Live, Which Is The Main Point.

The Night Comes Stealing O'er Me, And Clouds Are On The Sea; While The Wavelets Rustle Before Me With A Mystical Melody.

Out Of My Own Great Woe I Make My Little Songs.

Oh Fair, Oh Sweet And Holy As Dew At Morning Tide, I Gaze On Thee, And Yearnings, Sad In My Bosom Hide.