God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale

A Silence, The Brief Sabbath Of An Hour, Reigns O'er The Fields; The Laborer Sits Within His Dwelling; He Has Left His Steers Awhile, Unyoked, To Bite The Herbage, And His Dog Sleeps Stretched Beside The Door-stone In The Shade. Now The Gray Marmot, With Uplifted Paws, No More Sits Listening By His Den, But Steals Abroad, In Safety, To The Clover-field, And Crops Its Juicy-blossoms.

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

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.

The Stormy March Has Come At Last, With Winds And Clouds And Changing Skies; I Hear The Rushing Of The Blast That Through The Snowy Valley Flies.