The Moon Is Bleached As White As

When I Remember Something Which I Had, But Which Is Gone, And I Must Do Without, I Sometimes Wonder How I Can Be Glad, Even In Cowslip Time When Hedges Sprout; It Makes Me Sigh To Think On It,--but Yet My Days Will Not Be Better Days, Should I Forget.

We Wish For More In Life Rather Than More Of It.

It Is Not Reason Which Makes Faith Hard, But Life.

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.

I Wish, And I Wish That The Spring Would Go Faster, Nor Long Summer Bide So Late; And I Could Grow On Like The Foxglove And Aster, For Some Things Are Ill To Wait.