It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.

From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

Rule by patience, Laughing Water!