Though The Mills Of God

Not Enjoyment, And Not Sorrow, Is Our Destined End Or Way; But To Act, That Each Tomorrow Find Us Farther Than Today.

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

Day Of The Lord, As All Our Days Should Be!

There Rises The Moon, Broad And Tranquil, Through The Branches Of A Walnut Tree On A Hill Opposite. I Apostrophize It In The Words Of Faust; "o Gentle Moon, That Lookest For The Last Time Upon My Agonies!" --or Something To That Effect.

Gorgeous Flowerets In The Sunlight Shining, Blossoms Flaunting In The Eye Of Day, Tremulous Leaves, With Soft And Silver Lining, Buds That Open Only To Decay.