A Mother Is As Different From Anything

We Let Our Blessings Get Mouldy, And Then Call Them Curses.

Our Life Is In The Loom; It Rolls Up And Is Hidden As Fast As It Is Woven. It Is To Be Taken Out Of The Loom Only When We Leave This World; Then Only Shall We See The Pattern.

True Elegance Becomes The More So As It Approaches Simplicity.

Like A Bird She Seems To Wear Gay Plumage Unconsciously, As If It Grew Upon Her.

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.