Truth Is So Rare That It Is

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul, And Sings The Tune Without The Words, And Never Stops At All, And Sweetest In The Gale Is Heard; And Sore Must Be The Storm That Could Abash The Little Bird That Kept So Many Warm. I've Heard It In The Chilliest Land And On The Strangest Sea; Yet, Never, In Extremity, It Asked A Crumb Of Me.

The Sweets Of Pillage Can Be Known To No One But The Thief, Compassion For Integrity Is His Divinest Grief.

The Service Without Hope Is Tenderest, I Think-- ... There Is No Diligence Like That That Knows Not An Until

How Odd That Girl's Life Looks Behind This Soft Eclipse! I Think That Earth Seems So To Those In Heaven Now. This Being Comfort, Then That Other Kind Was Pain; But Why Compare? I'm Wife! Stop There!

Common Sense Is Almost As Omniscient As God.