My Sun Sets To Raise Again.

Knowledge By Suffering Entereth, And Life Is Perfected By Death.

Think, In Mounting Higher, The Angels Would Press On Us, And Aspire To Drop Some Golden Orb Of Perfect Song Into Our Deep, Dear Silence.

Oh, The Little Birds Sang East, And The Little Birds Sang West.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.

No Man Can Be Called Friendless Who Has God And The Companionship Of Good Books.