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.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

Whoso loves, believes in the impossible

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

So mothers have God's license to be missed.

The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!