Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind
We were not made to eternally weep.
The key to all strange things is in thy heart..../ My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.