And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.

Come When The Rains Have Glazed The Snow And Clothed The Trees With Ice, While The Slant Sun Of February Pours Into The Bowers A Flood Of Light. Approach! The Incrusted Surface Shall Upbear Thy Steps And The Broad Arching Portals Of The Grove Welcome Thy Entering.

Beautiful Isles! Beneath The Sunset Skies Tall, Silver-shafted Palm-trees Rise, Between Full Orange-trees That Shade The Living Colonade.

Christ Taught An Astonishing Thing About Physical Death: Not Merely That It Is An Experience Robbed Of Its Terror But That As An Experience It Does Not Exist At All. To "sleep In Christ," Like One That Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.

Stand Here By My Side And Turn, I Pray, On The Lake Below Thy Gentle Eyes; The Clouds Hang Over It, Heavy And Gray, And Dark And Silent The Water Lies; And Out Of That Frozen Mist The Snow In Wavering Flakes Begins To Flow; Flake After Flake, They Sink In The Dark And Silent Lake.