The Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps,

The Spring Came Suddenly, Bursting Upon The World As A Child Bursts Into A Room, With A Laugh And A Shout And Hands Full Of Flowers.

He Looks The Whole World In The Face For He Owes Not Any Man.

This Song Of Mine Is A Song Of The Vine To Be Sung By The Glowing Embers Of Wayside Inns, When The Rain Begins To Darken The Drear Novembers. And For The Richest And Best Is The Wind Of The West That Grows By The Beautiful River; Whose Sweet Perfume Fills All The Room With A Bension On The Giver. And When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Hime Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do.

But The Good Deed, Through The Ages Living In Historic Pages, Brighter Grows And Gleams Immortal, Unconsumed By Moth Or Rust.

Day, Like A Weary Pilgrim, Had Reached The Western Gate Of Heaven, And Evening Stooped Down To Unloose The Latchets Of His Sandal Shoon.