I Lock My Door Upon Myself, And

The Lilies Say: Behold How We Preach Without Words Of Purity.

A Pin Has A Head, But Has No Hair

And All Winds Go Sighing For Sweet Things Dying.

Love Loves For Ever, And Finds A Sort Of Joy In Pain, And Gives With Nought To Take Again, And Loves Too Well To End In Vain: Is The Gain Small Then? Love Laughs At "never", Outlives Our Life, Exceeds The Span Appointed To Mere Mortal Man: All Which Love Is And Does And Can Is All In All Then.

Consider The Lilies Of The Field Whose Bloom Is Brief:-- We Are As They; Like Them We Fade Away As Doth A Leaf.