O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet,

Unless You Can Muse In A Crowd All Day On The Absent Face That Fixed You; Unless You Can Love, As The Angels May, With The Breadth Of Heaven Betwixt You; Unless You Can Dream That His Faith Is Fast, Through Behoving And Unbehoving; Unless You Can Die When The Dream Is Past — Oh, Never Call It Loving!

And There My Little Doves Did Sit With Feathers Softly Brown And Glittering Eyes That Showed Their Right To General Nature's Deep Delight.

At Painful Times, When Composition Is Impossible And Reading Not Enough, Grammars And Dictionaries Are Excellent For Distraction.

Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O My Brothers?

Every Wish Is Like A Prayer--with God.