But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold, Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.

Little Jesus, was Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me?

The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl.

Spring is come home with her world-wandering feet, And all things are made young with your desires.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident.

So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure.-- From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demureness, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven vesture would subserve. For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments. Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.