Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

There Is No Flock, However Watched And Tended, But One Dead Lamb Is There! There Is No Fireside Howsoe'er Defended, But Has One Vacant Chair.

Mercy More Becomes A Magistrate Than The Vindictive Wrath Which Men Call Justice.

I Feel A Kind Of Reverence For The First Books Of Young Authors. There Is So Much Aspiration In Them, So Much Audacious Hope And Trembling Fear, So Much Of The Heart's History, That All Errors And Shortcomings Are For A While Lost Sight Of In The Amiable Self Assertion Of Youth.

Peace! And No Longer From Its Brazen Portals The Blast Of War's Great Organ Shakes The Skies! But Beautiful As Songs Of The Immortals, The Holy Melodies Of Love Arise.

Ah, How Skillful Grows The Hand That Obeyeth Love's Command! It Is The Heart, And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain, And He Who Followeth Love's Behest Far Excelleth All The Rest!