He Hath No Power That Hath Not

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.

The Long Days Are No Happier Than The Short Ones.

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

He Is A Fool Who Is Not For Love And Beauty. I Speak Unto The Young, For I Am Of Them And Always Shall Be.

Lips Like Rosebuds Peeping Out Of Snow.