Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye When none but God is near.

Night is the time to weep,To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of memory where sleepThe joys of other years.

Blue thou art, intensely blue; Flower, whence came thy dazzling hue?

Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow, With close uncrowded branches spread Not proudly high, nor meanly low, A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.

To-morrow — oh, 'twill never be, If we should live a thousand years! Our time is all to-day, to-day, The same, though changed; and while it flies With still small voice the moments say: "To-day, to-day, be wise, be wise.

A mother's love — how sweet the name! What is a mother's love? — A noble, pure and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould; The warmest love that can grow cold; This is a mother's love.

There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.