For 'tis Not In Mere Death That

A Child's Kiss Set On Thy Sighing Lips Shall Make Thee Glad; A Poor Man Served By Thee Shall Make Thee Rich; A Sick Man Helped By Thee Shall Make Thee Strong; Thou Shalt Be Served Thyself By Every Sense Of Service Which Thou Renderest.

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

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

The Little Cares That Fretted Me, I Lost Them Yesterday Among The Fields Above The Sea, Among The Winds At Play.

Women Know The Way To Rear Up Children (to Be Just). They Know A Simple, Merry, Tender Knack Of Tying Sashes, Fitting Baby-shoes, And Stringing Pretty Words That Make No Sense. And Kissing Full Sense Into Empty Words.