O Holy Trust! O Endless Sense Of

The Life Of Woman Is Full Of Woe, Toiling On And On And On, With Breaking Heart, And Tearful Eyes, The Secret Longings That Arise, Which This World Never Satisfies! Some More, Some Less, But Of The Whole Not One Quite Happy, No, Not One!

To Say The Least, A Town Life Makes One More Tolerant And Liberal In One's Judgment Of Others.

The Sea Hath Its Pearls The Heaven Hath Its Stars But My Heart, My Heart Has Its Love.

Ye Are Better Than All The Ballads That Ever Were Sung Or Said; For Ye Are Living Poems, And All The Rest Are Dead.

Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As The Day, Can There Be So Fair A Creature Formed Of Common Clay?