Races, Better Than We, Have

To Charm, To Strengthen, And To Teach: These Are The Three Great Chords Of Might.

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

A Town That Boasts Inhabitants Like Me Can Have No Lack Of Good Society.

Under A Spreading Chestnut-tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands.

The Devil Hinders Me. You Know I Say Just What I Think, And Nothing More Nor Less, And, When I Pray, My Heart Is In My Prayer. I Cannot Say One Thing And Mean Another. If I Can't Pray, I Will Not Make Believe!