O Passing Angel, Speed Me With A

The Rose Saith In The Dewy Morn, I Am Most Fair; Yet All My Loveliness Is Born Upon A Thorn.

Obedience Is The Fruit Of Faith; Patience Is The Early Blossom On The Tree Of Faith.

Not As She Is, But As She Fills His Dream

The Violets Whisper From The Shade Which Their Own Leaves Have Made: Men Scent Our Fragrance On The Air, Yet Take No Heed Of Humble Lessons We Would Read.

Remember Me When I Am Gone Away, Gone Far Away Into The Silent Land.