Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity

You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.

I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!

We turn not older with years but newer every day.

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.