Love Is A Bodily Shape; And Christian

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

Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.