Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Because right is right, to follow right were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.

Cast your cares on God; that anchor holds.

Dust are our frames; and gilded dust, our pride
Looks only for a moment whole and sound.