If The World 's A Vale Of

Thou Hastenest Down Between The Hills To Meet Me At The Road, The Secret Scarcely Lisping Of Thy Beautiful Abode Among The Pines And Mosses Of Yonder Shadowy Height, Where Thou Dost Sparkle Into Song, And Fill The Woods With Light.

If An Apple Blossom Or A Ripe Apple Could Tell Its Own Story, It Would Be, Still More Than Its Own, The Story Of The Sunshine That Smiled Upon It, Of The Winds That Whispered To It, Of The Birds That Sang Around It, Of The Storms That Visited It, And Of The Motherly Tree That Held It And Fed It Until Its Petals Were Unfolded And Its Form Developed.

Sometimes It Seems To Me That God 's Way Of Dealing With Me Is Not To Let Me See Much Of My Friends, Those Who Are Most To Me In The Spiritual Life, Lest I Should Forget That The Invisible Bond Is The Only Reality. That Is The Only Way I Can Reconcile Myself To The Inevitable Separations Of Life And Death.

A Drop Of Water, If It Could Write Out Its Own History, Would Explain The Universe To Us.

The Peach-bud Glows, The Wild Bee Hums, And Wind-flowers Wave In Graceful Gladness.