It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.
I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
I have lived to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered.
It is not reason which makes faith hard, but life.