Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

There is in all this cold and hollow world, No fount of deep, strong,deathless love ;save that within a mother's heart

Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things.

The opening and the folding flowers, that laugh to the summer's day.

There is strength deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck but little till the shafts of heaven have pierced its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent before her gems are found?

Though the past haunt me as a spirit, I do not ask to forget.