Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.

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.

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

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.

As the husband is, the wife is.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.