The World Is Charged With The Grandeur

Spring And Fall: To A Young Child Márgarét, Are You Gríeving Over Goldengrove Unleaving? Leáves, Líke The Things Of Man, You With Your Fresh Thoughts Care For, Can You? Ah! ás The Heart Grows Older It Will Come To Such Sights Colder By And By, Nor Spare A Sigh Though Worlds Of Wanwood Leafmeal Lie; And Yet You Wíll Weep And Know Why. Now No Matter, Child, The Name: Sórrow's Spríngs áre The Same. Nor Mouth Had, No Nor Mind, Expressed What Heart Heard Of, Ghost Guessed: It ís The Blight Man Was Born For, It Is Margaret You Mourn For.

To Lift Up The Hands In Prayer Gives God Glory, But A Man With A Dungfork In His Hand, A Woman With A Slop Pail, Give Him Glory, Too. God Is So Great That All Things Give Him Glory If You Mean That They Should.

I Can Scarcely Fancy Myself To Ask A Superior To Publish A Volume Of My Verse And I Own That Humanly There Is Very Little Likelihood Of That Ever Coming To Pass. And To Be Sure If I Chose To Look At Things On One Side And Not The Other I Could Of Course Regret This Bitterly. But There Is More Peace And It Isthe Holier Lot To Be Unknown Than To Be Known.

God?is So Great That All Things Give Him Glory If You Mean They Should.

O The Mind, Mind Has Mountains; Cliffs Of Fall Frightful, Sheer, No-man-fathomed.