In The First Is The Last, In

If You Get Simple Beauty And Naught Else, You Get About The Best Thing God Invents.

What So Wild As Words Are?

And Inasmuch As Feeling, The East's Gift, Is Quick And Transient,- Comes, And Lo! Is Gone, While Northern Thought Is Slow And Durable.

It Was Roses, Roses, All The Way, With Myrtle Mixed In My Path Like Mad.

Such Ever Was Love's Way: To Rise, It Stoops.