Motherhood Is Priced Of God, At Price

Next Time!' In What Calendar Are Kept The Records Of Those Next Times Which Never Come?

On The King's Gate The Moss Grew Gray;the King Came Not. They Called Him Deadand Made His Eldest Son One Dayslave In His Father's Stead.

O Winter! Frozen Pulse And Heart Of Fire, What Loss Is Theirs Who From Thy Kingdom Turn Dismayed, And Think Thy Snow A Sculptured Urn Of Death! Far Sooner In Midsummer Tire The Streams Than Under Ice. June Could Not Hire Her Roses To Forego The Strength They Learn In Sleeping On Thy Breast.

O Month When They Who Love Must Love And Wed.

Now And Then One Sees A Face Which Has Kept Its Smile Pure And Undefiled. Such A Smile Transfigures; Such A Smile, If The Artful But Know It, Is The Greatest Weapon A Face Can Have.