Who Ne'er Knew Salt, Or Heard The

The Leader, Mingling With The Vulgar Host, Is In The Common Mass Of Matter Lost.

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

Even His Griefs Are A Joy Long After To One That Remembers All That He Wrought And Endured.

Like Leaves On Trees The Race Of Man Is Found,- Now Green In Youth, Now Withering On The Ground; Another Race The Following Spring Supplies: They Fall Successive, And Successive Rise.

I, For One, Know Of No Sweeter Sight For A Man's Eyes Than His Own Country.