In your patience ye are strong.

A child's kiss Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad; A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service which thou renderest.

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?

But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.

Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!