William Vaughn Moody

Hark, below, the many-voiced earth, The chanting of the old religious trees, Rustle of far-off waters, woven sounds Of small and multitudinous lives awake, Peopling the grasses and the pools with joy, Uttering their meaning to the mystic …

Bring me your children hither. … Unto this twain, man-child and womanchild, I give the passion of this element; This seed of longing, substance of this love; This power, this purity, this annihilation.

The gods despise enforcèd offerings. When the heart brings its dearest and its last Then only will they hear—if then, if then!

Time softly there Laughs through the abyss of radiance with the gods.

Passion is power, And, kindly tempered, saves. All things declare Struggle hath deeper peace than sleep can bring.