Thou Art A Woman, And That Is

We Live In Deeds, Not Years; In Thoughts, Not Breaths; In Feelings, Not In Figures On A Dial.

The Death-change Comes. Death Is Another Life. We Bow Our Heads At Going Out, We Think, And Enter Straight Another Golden Chamber Of The King's Larger Than This We Leave, And Lovelier. And Then In Shadowy Glimpses, Disconnect, The Story, Flower-like, Closes Thus Its Leaves. The Will Of God Is All In All. He Makes, Destroys, Remakes, For His Own Pleasure, All.

All Are Of The Race Of God, And Have In Themselves Good.

Ah, Nothing Comes To Us Too Soon But Sorrow.

Words Are The Motes Of Thought, And Nothing More.