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

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

I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Of writing many books there is no end.

My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.