How Gently Rock Yon Poplars High Against

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.

O Woman! Thou Wert Fashioned To Beguile: So Have All Sages Said, All Poets Sung.

A Birthday:-and Now A Day That Rose With Much Of Hope, With Meaning Rife- A Thoughtful Day From Dawn To Close: The Middle Day Of Human Life.

What Is Thy Thought? There Is No Miracle? There Is A Great One, Which Thou Hast Not Read, And Never Shalt Escape. Thyself, O Man, Thou Art The Miracle. Ay, Thou Thyself, Being In The World And Of The World, Thyself, Hast Breathed In Breath From Him That Made The World. Thou Art Thy Father's Copy Of Himself,-- Thou Art Thy Father's Miracle.

Man Is The Miracle In Nature. God Is The One Miracle To Man.