The Italians say that a beautiful woman by her smiles draws tears from our purse.

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.

Nature has thrown a veil of modest beauty over maidenhood and moss-roses.

Gratitude is not only the memory but the homage of the heart- rendered to God for his goodness.

I have unlearned contempt; it is a sin that is engendered earliest in the soul, and doth beset it like a poison worm feeding on all its beauty.

Blessed are the joymakers.

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