Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer.

Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.