The One Great Poem Of New England

Fear Secretes Acids; But Love And Trust Are Sweet Juices.

When Our Children Die, We Drop Them Into The Unknown, Shuddering With Fear. We Know That They Go Out From Us, And We Stand, And Pity, And Wonder. If We Receive News, That A Hundred Thousand Dollars Had Been Left Them By Some One Dying, We Should Be Thrown Into An Ecstasy Of Rejoicing; But When They Have Gone Home To God, We Stand, And Mourn, And Pine, And Wonder At The Mystery Of Providence.

A Week Filled Up With Selfishness, And The Sabbath Stuffed Full Of Religious Exercises, Will Make A Good Pharisee, But A Poor Christian. There Are Many Persons Who Think Sunday Is A Sponge With Which To Wipe Out The Sins Of The Week. Now, God's Altar Stands From Sunday To Sunday, And The Seventh Day Is No More For Religion Than Any Other. It Is For Rest. The Whole Seven Are For Religion, And One Of Them For Rest.

We Are Never Ripe Till We Have Been Made So By Suffering.

The Unthankful Heart... Discovers No Mercies; But Let The Thankful Heart Sweep Through The Day And, As The Magnet Finds The Iron, So It Will Find, In Every Hour, Some Heavenly Blessings!