I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.

The essence of all beauty, I call love.

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!