Whatever With The Past Has Gone, The

Because Its Myriad Glimmering Plumes Like A Great Army's Stir And Wave; Because Its Golden Billows Blooms, The Poor Man's Barren Walks To Lave: Because Its Sun-shaped Blossoms Show How Souls Receive The Light Of God, And Unto Earth Give Back That Glow I Thank Him For The Goldenrod.

Girls Especially Are Fond Of Exchanging Confidences With Those Whom They Think They Can Trust; It Is One Of The Most Charming Traits Of A Simple, Earnest-hearted Girlhood, And They Are The Happiest Women Who Never Lose It Entirely.

June Falls Asleep Upon Her Bier Of Flowers; In Vain Are Dewdrops Sprinkled O'er Her, In Vain Would Fond Winds Fan Her Back To Life, Her Hours Are Numbered On The Floral Dial.

It Is The Greatest Of All Mistakes To Begin Life With The Expectation That It Is Going To Be Easy, Or With The Wish To Have It So.

These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With Dear Companions Now Passed Out Of Sight, Shall Not Be Laid Upon Their Graves. They Live, Since Love Is Deathless. Pleasure Now Nor Pride Is Theirs In Mortal Wise, But Hallowing Thoughts Will Meet The Offering, Of So Little Worth, Wanting The Benison Death Has Made Divine.