Evening Words Are Not Like To Morning.

Storms Make Oaks Take Deeper Root.

The March Sunne Raises But Dissolves Not.

Listen, Sweet Dove, Unto My Song, And Spread Thy Golden Wings In Me; Hatching My Tender Heart So Long, Till It Get Wing, And Flie Away With Thee.

Soft And Faire Goes Farre.

Enrich My Heart, Mouth, Hands In Me, With Faith, With Hope, With Charity, That I May Run, Rise, Rest With Thee.