I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.

Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.