Though The Mills Of God Grind Slowly,

The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf.

In The Lives Of The Saddest Of Us, There Are Bright Days Like This, When We Feel As If We Could Take The Great World In Our Arms And Kiss It. Then Come The Gloomy Hours, When The Fire Will Neither Burn On Our Hearths Nor In Our Hearts; And All Without And Within Is Dismal, Cold, And Dark. Believe Me, Every Heart Has Its Secret Sorrows, Which The World Knows Not, And Oftentimes We Call A Man Cold, When He Is Only Sad.

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

The Twilight Is Sad And Cloudy, The Wind Blows Wild And Free, And Like The Wings Of Sea-birds Flash The White Caps Of The Sea.

Take Them, O Death! And Bear Away Whatever Thou Canst Call Thine Own! Thine Image, Stamped Upon This Clay, Doth Give Thee That, But That Alone!