Chapter III

The best of life came to the twain,
The beauty of the stars, the rain,
Soft stepping, and the liquid notes
That overflow from feathered throats.
Unto the soul that selfish strives
Was borne the fragrance of their lives,
And anxious folk with brow down bent
Bathed in their dewy cool content.
They held their heads up in the storm,
And gloried when the winds were warm;
Their shadows lay but at their feet,
And all of life above was sweet.