All things born of causes end when causes run out;
but causes, what are they born of?
That very first cause — where did it come from?
At this point words fail me, workings of my mind go dead.
I took these words to the old woman in the house to the east;
the old woman in the house to the east was not pleased.
I questioned the old man in the house to the west;
the old man in the house to the west puckered his brow and walked away.
I tried writing the question on a biscuit, fed it to the dogs,
but even the dogs refused to bite.

All things are doubly fair
If patience fashion them
And care--
Verse, enamel, marble, gem.

No idle chains endure:
Yet, Muse, to walk aright
Lace tight
Thy buskin proud and sure.

Fie on facile measure.
A shoe where every lout
At pleasure
Slip his foot in and out!

Sculptor lay by the clay
On which thy nerveless finger
May linger,
Thy thoughts flown far away.

Keep to Carrara rare,
Struggle with Paros cold,
That hold
The subtle line and fair.

Lest haply nature lose

All the way my Saviour leads me;
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my Guide?
Heavenly peace, divinest comfort,
Here by faith in Him to dwell!
For I know, whate'er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well.

All the way my Saviour leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living bread.
Though my weary steps may falter,
And my soul athirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! a spring of joy I see.

All the past we leave behind:
We take up the task eternal,
And the burden and the lesson,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing,
So we go the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Not for delectations sweet,
Not the riches safe and palling,
Not for us the tame enjoyment;
Never must you be divided,
In our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!

All the pulses of the world,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing,
These are of us, they are with us;
We today's procession heading,
We the route for travel clearing,

All the night
And all day long
I hark to the sound
Of the blacksmith's song.

Red his fire —
The bright sparks fly
To dance with stars
In the joyous sky.

All the mill-horses of Europe
Were plodding round and round;
All the mills were droning
The same old sound.

The drivers were dozing, the millers
Were deaf — as millers will be;
When, startling them all, without warning
Came a great shout from the sea!

It startled them all. The horses,
Lazily plodding round,
Started and stopp'd; and the mills dropp'd
Like a mantle their sound.

The millers look'd over their shoulders,
The drivers open'd their eyes:
A silence, deeper than deafness,
Had fallen out of the skies.

All the here and all the there
Ring with the praises of the pair:
Jesus the Paraclete
And Saint Paul the Exegete.

Jesus proclaimed the truth.
Paul's missionary tooth
Shredded it fine, and made a paste,
No particle going to waste,
Kneaded it and caked it
And buttered it and baked it
(And indeed all but digested
While Jesus went to death and rested)
Into a marketable compound
Ready to lay on any wound,
Meet to prescribe to our distress
And feed unto our emptiness.

And this is how the Pure Idea

All the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring,
All the winds on earth may bring
All sweet sounds together;
Sweeter far than all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,
Welling water's winsome word,
Wind in warm wan weather,

One thing yet there is, that none
Hearing ere its chime be done
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,
Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light--

The agèd hens of Oripò,
They tempt the stormy sea;
Black, white and brown, they spread their wings,
And o'er the waters flee;
And when a little fish they clutch
Athwart the wave so blue,
They utter forth a joyful note,—
A cock-a-doodle-doo!
O! Oo! Oripò—Oo! the hens of Oripò!

The crafty hens of Oripò,
They wander on the shore,
Where shrimps and winkles pick they up,
And carry home a store;
For barley, oats, or golden corn,
To eat they never wish,
All vegetably food they scorn,
And only seek for fish.

All that's bright must fade,—
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made,
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;—
The flower that drops in springing;—
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,—
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!

Who would seek our prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be