How Short Our Happy Days

The Red Sahara In An Angry Glow, / With Amber Fogs, Across Its Hollows Trailed / Long Strings Of Camels, Gloomy-eyed And Slow.

When Our Thoughts Are Born, Though They Be Good And Humble, One Should Mind How They Are Reared, Or Some Will Go Astray And Shame Their Mother.

You Moon, Have You Done Something Wrong In Heaven / That God Has Hidden Your Face?

What Is Thy Thought? There Is No Miracle? There Is A Great One, Which Thou Hast Not Read, And Never Shalt Escape. Thyself, O Man, Thou Art The Miracle. Ay, Thou Thyself, Being In The World And Of The World, Thyself, Hast Breathed In Breath From Him That Made The World. Thou Art Thy Father's Copy Of Himself,-- Thou Art Thy Father's Miracle.

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.