The Helicon Of Too Many Poets Is

O Holy Trust! O Endless Sense Of Rest! Like The Beloved John To Lay His Head Upon The Saviour's Breast, And Thus To Journey On!

Don't Cross The Bridge Til You Come To It.

More Hearts Are Breaking In This World Of Ours Than One Would Say. In Distant Villages And Solitudes Remote, Where Winds Have Wafted The Barbed Seeds Of Love, Or Birds Of Passage Scattered Them In Their Flight, Do They Take Root, And Grow In Silence, And In Silence Perish.

The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf.

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.