Let those whose Hearts and Hands are strong Tell eager Tales of mighty Deeds; Enough if my sequestered song To hush'd and twilight Gardens leads! Clear Waters, drawn from secret Wells Perchance may fevered Lips assuage; The Tales an elder Pilgrim tells To such as go on Pilgrimage. Such the soft Path my Words would trace, Thus with the moving Waters move; So leave, across the Ocean's Face, A glimmering Stair to Hope and Love.

'I must consider,' said Monica with a smile, 'but one can't do these things offhand--that is worse than doing nothing. I'll tell you what to do NOW. Why not go…

O golden Silence, bid our souls be still, And on the foolish fretting of our care Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware!

All the birds have flown up and gone; A lonely cloud floats leisurely by. We never tire of looking at each other - Only the mountain and I.

Ev'rything's gonna be alright So, no woman, no cry