To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And

Come Knit Hands, And Beat The Ground In A Light Fantastic Round

And Looks Commercing With The Skies, Thy Rapt Soul Sitting In Thine Eyes.

Death From Sin No Power Can Separate.

Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old, When All Our Fathers Worshipp'd Stocks And Stones.

Therefore, If At Great Things Thou Wouldst Arrive, Get Riches First, Get Wealth.