To Create A Little Flower Is The

It Is An Easy Thing To Talk Of Patience To The Afflicted.

Mutual Forgiveness Of Each Vice. Such Are The Gates Of Paradise.

Heaven Is In A Grain Of Sand.

When The Stars Threw Down Their Spears, And Watered Heaven With Their Tears, Did He Smile His Work To See? Did He Who Made The Lamb Make Thee?

Bring Me An Axe And Spade, Bring Me A Winding-sheet; When I My Grave Have Made Let Winds And Tempests Beat: Then Down I'll Lie As Cold As Clay. True Love Doth Pass Away!