Pleasure Is Labour Too, And Tires As

No Tree In All The Grove But Has Its Charms, Though Each Its Hue Peculiar.

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.

Trials Make The Promise Sweet, Trials Give New Life To Prayer; Trials Bring Me To His Feet, Lay Me Low, And Keep Me There.

The Man To Solitude Accustom'd Long, Perceives In Everything That Lives A Tongue; Not Animals Alone, But Shrubs And Trees Have Speech For Him, And Understood With Ease, After Long Drought When Rains Abundant Fall, He Hears The Herbs And Flowers Rejoicing All.

They Whom Truth And Wisdom Lead, Can Gather Honey From A Weed.