Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet read more

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

There is no index of character so sure as the voice.

There is no index of character so sure as the voice.

It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.

It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.

At some glad moment was it nature's choice To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice?

At some glad moment was it nature's choice To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice?

And rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

And rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

A man's style is his mind's voice. Wooden minds, wooden voices.

A man's style is his mind's voice. Wooden minds, wooden voices.

Oh, there is something in that voice that reaches
The innermost recesses of my spirit!

Oh, there is something in that voice that reaches
The innermost recesses of my spirit!

. . . solitude is such a potential thing. We hear voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry read more

. . . solitude is such a potential thing. We hear voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry and turmoil of life; we receive counsels and comforts, we get under no other condition . . .