I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless.

Very Whitely Still The Lilies Of Our Lives May Reassure Their Blossoms From Their Roots, Accessible Alone To Heavenly Dews That Drop Not Fewer; Growing Straight Out Of Man's Reach, On The Hill. God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can Make Us Poor.

Let Us Be Content To Work To Do The Things We Can, And Not Presume To Fret Because It's Little.

A Great Acacia, With Its Slender Trunk And Overpoise Of Multitudinous Leaves. (in Which A Hundred Fields Might Spill Their Dew And Intense Verdure, Yet Find Room Enough) Stood Reconciling All The Place With Green.

Anybody Is Qualified, According To Everybody, For Giving Opinions Upon Poetry. It Is Not So In Chemistry And Mathematics. Nor Is It So, I Believe, In Whist And The Polka. But Then These Are More Serious Things.

It Was Not The Apple On The Tree But The Pair On The Ground That Caused The Trouble In The Garden Of Eden.