The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.

For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.

He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin; When upon his hands he wore them, He could smite the rocks asunder, He could grind them into powder.

When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.