Cries Of Despair, Misery, Sobbing Grief Are

And At Night I Love To Listen To The Stars. It Is Like Five Hundred Million Little Bells.

You Do Not Explain The Tree By Telling Of The Water It Has Drunk, The Minerals It Has Absorbed, And The Sunlight That Strengthened It.

One Runs The Risk Of Weeping A Little, If One Lets Himself Be Tamed.

When Faith Burns Itself Out, 'tis God Who Dies And Thenceforth Proves Unavailing.

The Wind In The Grain Is The Caress To The Spouse; It Is The Hand Of Peace Stroking Her Hair.