To Fail At All Is

Who Gives Himself With His Alms Feeds Three, Himself, His Hungering Neighbor And Me.

The Quiet Tenderness Of Chaucer, Where You Almost Seem To Hear The Hot Tears Falling, And The Simple Choking Words Sobbed Out.

Fate Loves The Fearless.

Over Our Manhood Bend The Skies; Against Our Fallen And Traitor Lives The Great Winds Utter Prophecies; With Our Faint Hearts The Mountain Strives, Its Arms Outstretched, The Druid Wood Waits With Its Benedicite And To Our Age’s Drowsy Blood Still Shouts The Inspiring Sea.

Get But The Truth Once Uttered, And 'tis Like A Star New-born That Drops Into Its Place And Which, Once Circling In Its Placid Round, Not All The Tumult Of The Earth Can Shake.