Though The Mills Of God Grind Slowly,

Our Ingress Into The World Was Naked And Bare; Our Progress Through The World Is Trouble And Care.

The Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps, Is That It Anticipates And Admits Of No Return.

The Hooded Clouds, Like Friars, Tell Their Beads In Drops Of Rain.

Some Must Follow And Some Command, Through All Are Made Oclay.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.