Epigraph
“To the newest born of the Sisters,
At the end of the race’s march,
In her quaint, old Spanish garment,
Pillar and tile and arch;
Awaiting the age that hallows,
Her face to the coming morn—
Whose scholars still walk in her cloisters,
Whose martyrs are yet unborn.”
“We scatter down the four wide ways,
Clasp hands and part, but keep
The power of the golden days
To lull our care asleep,
And dream, while our new years we fill
With sweetness from those four,
That we are known and loved there still,
Though we come back no more.”