My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

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.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.