The Music Soars Within The Little Lark,

Art Is Much, But Love Is More.

Life, Struck Sharp On Death, Makes Awful Lightning.

Alas, I Have Grieved So I Am Hard To Love. Yet Love Me--wilt Thou? Open Thine Heart Wide, And Fold Within, The Wet Wings Of Thy Dove.

My Sun Sets To Raise Again.

Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O My Brothers?