If All Were Rich, Gold Would Be

Mind And Night Will Meet, Though In Silence, Like Forbidden Lovers.

For As Nightingales Do Upon Glow-worms Feed, So Poets Live Upon The Living Light.

Sorrow Is A Stone That Crushes A Single Bearer To The Ground, While Two Are Able To Carry It With Ease.

Dear Lord, Our God And Saviour! For Thy Gifts The World Were Poor In Thanks, Though Every Soul Were To Do Nought But Breathe Them, Every Blade Of Grass, And Every Atomie Of Earth To Utter It Like Dew.

Blessings Star Forth Forever; But A Curse Is Like A Cloud, It Passes.