T is the work of many a dark hour, many a prayer, to bring the heart back from an infant gone.

One lamp — thy mother’s love — amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before The throne of God, burn through eternity - Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here.

How like a mounting devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition.

There is no divining-rod whose dip shall tell us at twenty what we shall most relish at thirty.

The lily and the rose in her fair face striving for precedence.

It is godlike to unloose the spirit, and forget yourself in thought.

A lamp is lit in woman's eye; that souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.