In these, perchance, no ready sequence lies, 

 Linked only by the season s rise and fall ; 

 Yet thro , and over, and around them all 



There flows the current strong of Time s great min 

 istries. 



So would we keep among these scattered flowers 

 A thread of graver purpose interwound, 

 A hint of something only to be found 



Where from God s holiest heights unroll the golden 



hours ! 



13 



