The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A

Trust No Future, However Pleasant! Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead! Act -- Act In The Living Present! Heart Within And God Overhead.

Bell, Thou Soundest Merrily, When The Bridal Party To The Church Doth Hie! Bell, Thou Soundest Solemnly, When, On Sabbath Morning, Fields Deserted Lie!

Mine Is The Month Of Roses; Yes, And Mine The Month Of Marriages! All Pleasant Sights And Scents, The Fragrance Of The Blossoming Vine, The Foliage Of The Valleys And The Heights. Mine Are The Longest Days, The Loveliest Nights; The Mower's Scythe Makes Music To My Ear; I Am The Mother Of All Dear Delights; I Am The Fairest Daughter Of The Year.

And In The Wreck Of Noble Lives Something Immortal Still Survives.

A Feeling Of Sadness And Longing, That Is Not Akin To Pain, And Resembles Sorrow Only As The Mist Resembles The Rain.