For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours

And There My Little Doves Did Sit With Feathers Softly Brown And Glittering Eyes That Showed Their Right To General Nature's Deep Delight.

Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing But Too Much Sun.

Who So Loves Believes The Impossible.

When God Helps All The Workers For His World, The Singers Shall Have Help Of Him, Not Last.

Measure Not The Work Until The Day's Out And The Labor Done.