A Woman's Pity Often Opens The Door

As Flowers Carry Dewdrops, Trembling On The Edges Of The Petals, And Ready To Fall At The First Waft Of Wind Or Brush Of Bird, So The Heart Should Carry Its Beaded Words Of Thanksgiving; And At The First Breath Of Heavenly Flavor, Let Down The Shower, Perfumed With The Heart's Gratitude.

There Ought To Be Such An Atmosphere In Every Christian Church That A Man Going There And Sitting Two Hours Should Take The Contagion Of Heaven, And Carry Home A Fire To Kindle The Altar Whence He Came.

Poverty Is Very Good In Poems But Very Bad In The House; Very Good In Maxims And Sermons But Very Bad In Practical Life.

What If The Leaves Were To Fall A-weeping, And Say, "it Will Be So Painful For Us To Be Pulled From Our Stalks, When Autumn Comes?" Foolish Fear! Summer Goes, And Autumn Succeeds. The Glory Of Death Is Upon The Leaves; And The Gentlest Breeze That Blows Takes Them Softly And Silently From The Bough, And They Float Slowly Down, Like Fiery Sparks, Upon The Moss.

The Last Person One Wants To Be Is Themselves. Sadly, That Is The Best Person To Be.