O, Sorrow! Why Dost Borrow Heart's Lightness

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

The Feel Of Not To Feel It, When There Is None To Heal It Nor Numbed Sense To Steel It.

To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent, ’tis Very Sweet To Look Into The Fair And Open Face Of Heaven, — To Breathe A Prayer Full In The Smile Of The Blue Firmament.

All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.