Alas For The Rarity Of Christian Charity

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?

Oh, If It Be To Choose And Call Thee Mine, Love, Thou Art Every Day My Valentine!

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

Our Very Hopes Belied Our Fears, Our Fears Our Hopes Belied; We Thought Her Dying When She Slept, And Sleeping When She Died.

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.