As Turning The Logs Will

Were A Star Quenched On High,for Ages Would Its Light,still Travelling Downward From The Sky,shine On Our Mortal Sight. So When A Great Man Dies,for Years Beyond Our Ken,the Light He Leaves Behind Him Liesupon The Paths Of Men.

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

The Moon Is Hidden Behind A Cloud... On The Leaves Is A Sound Of Falling Rain... No Other Sounds Than These I Hear; The Hour Of Midnight Must Be Near... So Many Ghosts, And Forms Of Fright, Have Started From Their Graves To-night, They Have Driven Sleep From Mine Eyes Away: I Will Go Down To The Chapel And Pray.

O Weary Hearts! O Slumbering Eyes! O Drooping Souls, Whose Destinies Are Fraught With Fear And Pain, Ye Shall Be Loved Again.

Love Is The Root Of Creation; God's Essence; Worlds Without Number Lie In His Bosom Like Children; He Made Them For This Purpose Only. Only To Love And To Be Loved Again.