God Warms His Hands At Man's Heart

Each One Could Be A Jesus Mild, Each One Has Been A Little Child, A Little Child With Laughing Look, A Lovely White Unwritten Book; A Book That God Will Take, My Friend, As Each Goes Out At Journey's End.

What Am I, Life? A Thing Of Watery Salt Held In Cohesion By Unresting Cells, Which Work They Know Not Why, Which Never Halt, Myself Unwitting Where Their Master Dwells?

And He Who Gives A Child A Treat Makes Joy-bells Ring In Heaven's Street, And He Who Gives A Child A Home Builds Palaces In Kingdom Come, And She Who Gives A Baby Birth Brings Saviour Christ Again To Earth.

God Warms His Hands At Man's Heart When He Prays.

It Is Too Maddening. I've Got To Fly Off, Right Now, To Some Devilish Navy Yard, 3 Hours In A Seasick Steamer, & After Being Heartily Sick, I'll Have To Speak 3 Times, & Then Be Sick Coming Home. Still, Who Would Not Be Sick For England?