Compassionate the mountains rise Dim with the wistful dimness of old…

It is cruel for a woman with her man gone, An' the younguns allus hungry, an' winter comin' on.

Here lies a spendthrift who believed That only those who spend may keep; Who scattered seeds, yet never grieved Because a stranger came to reap.

Porgy lived in the Golden Age. Not the Golden Age of a remote and legendary past; nor yet the chimerical era treasured by every man past middle life, that never existed except in the heart of youth; but an age when men, not yet old, were …

You could not give me toys in those bleak days; So when my playmates proudly boasted theirs, You caught me to the shelter of your arms, And taught me how to laugh away my tears.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.