For Ivy Climbs The Crumbling Hall To

Not A Single Path Of Thought I Tread, But That It Leads To God.

Dear Lord, Our God And Saviour! For Thy Gifts The World Were Poor In Thanks, Though Every Soul Were To Do Nought But Breathe Them, Every Blade Of Grass, And Every Atomie Of Earth To Utter It Like Dew.

How Slight A Chance May Raise Or Sink A Soul!

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.

Ah, Nothing Comes To Us Too Soon But Sorrow.