Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O

Every Wish Is Like A Prayer--with God.

For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours From My Life.

Since When Was Genius Found Respectable?

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

The Soul Hath Snatched Up Mine All Faint And Weak,and Placed It By Thee On A Golden Throne,-- And That I Love (o Soul, We Must Be Meek!)is By Thee Only, Whom I Love Alone.