My sun sets to raise again.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.

And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.

And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness; Round our restlessness, His rest.

The Holy Night We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem; The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Toward the newly Born: The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange sweet angel-tongue: The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh, and gold These baby hands were impotent to hold: So let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.