The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

It was not the apple on the tree but the pair on the ground that caused the trouble in the garden of Eden.

He who breathes deepest lives most.

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.