Whoso loves, believes in the impossible
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.
He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.
She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)