As the shapes of the purified mind;
Nought surer to which the weak heart can grow,
On which it can rest as it onward doth go,
Than that Truth which its own tendrils bind.
"Yes, Truth opes within a pure sun-tide of bliss,
And shows in its ever calm flood
A transcript of regions where no darkness is,
Where Hope its conceptions may realize,
And Confidence sleep in the good."
