Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient

Death Is The Chillness That Precedes The Dawn; We Shudder For A Moment, Then Awake In The Broad Sunshine Of The Other Life.

Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds Together The Volume Of The Week.

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

Down Sank The Great Red Sun, And In Golden, Glimmering Vapors Veiled The Light Of His Face, Like The Prophet Descending From Sinai.

Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.