And Lo, The Hospital, Gray, Quiet, Old,

Men There Have Been Who Have Done The Essayist's Part So Well As To Have Earned An Immortality In The Doing; But We Have Had Not Many Of Them, And They Make But A Poor Figure On Our Shelves. It Is A Pity That Things Should Be Thus With Us, For A Good Essayist Is The Pleasantest Companion Imaginable.

So Be My Passing! My Task Accomplished And The Long Day Done, My Wages Taken, And In My Heart Some Late Lark Singing, Let Me Be Gathered In The Quiet West, The Sundown Splendid And Serene, Death.

Between The Dusk Of A Summer Night And The Dawn Of A Summer Day, We Caught At A Mood As It Passed In Flight, And We Bade It Stoop And Stay. And What With The Dawn Of Night Began With The Dusk Of Day Was Done; For That Is The Way Of Woman And Man, When A Hazard Has Made Them One. Arc Upon Arc, From Shade To Shine, The World Went Thundering Free; And What Was His Errand But Hers And Mine - The Lords Of Him, I And She? O, It's Die We Must, But It's Live We Can, And The Marvel Of Earth And Sun Is All For The Joy Of Woman And Man And The Longing That Makes Them One.

Now, To Read Poetry At All Is To Have An Ideal Anthology Of One's Own, And In That Possession To Be Incapable Of Content With The Anthologies Of All The World Besides.

And Lo, The Hospital, Gray, Quiet, Old, Where Life And Death Like Friendly Chafferers Meet.