Who Speaks The Truth Stabs Falsehood To

Time Makes Ancient Good Uncouth.

Better To Me The Poor Mans Crust, Better The Blessing Of The Poor, Though I Turn Me Empty From His Door; That Is No True Alms Which The Hand Can Hold; He Gives Nothing But Worthless Gold Who Gives From A Sense Of Duty; But He Who Gives A Slender Mite, And Gives To That Which Is Out Of Sight, That Thread Of The All-sustaining Beauty Which Runs Through All And Doth All Unite, - The Hand Cannot Clasp The Whole Of His Alms, The Heart Outstretches Its Eager Palms, For A God Goes With It And Makes It Store To The Soul That Was Starving In Darkness Before.

Who's Not Sat Tense Before His Own Heart's Curtain.

The Fireflies O'er The Meadow In Pulses Come And Go.

Behind The Dim Unknown, Standeth God With The Shadow, Keeping Watch Above His Own.