O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.