Oh, The Little Birds Sang East, And

For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours From My Life.

Of All The Thoughts Of God That Are Borne Inward Unto Souls Afar, Along The Psalmist's Music Deep, Now Tell Me If That Any Is. For Gift Or Grace, Surpassing This-- He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.

"there Is No God," The Foolish Saith, But None, "there Is No Sorrow." And Nature Oft The Cry Of Faith In Bitter Need Will Borrow: Eyes Which The Preacher Could Not School, By Wayside Graves Are Raised; And Lips Say, "god Be Pitiful," Who Ne'er Said, "god Be Praised."

But Love Me For Love's Sake, That Evermore Thou May'st Love On, Through Love's Eternity.

Thou Large-brain'd Woman And Large-hearted Man.