O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for awhile the crowded mart; O women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years to-day and come As children back to childhood's house.

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

But whenever she thanks the givers for favors great and small, she thinks of the good little sister who gave her more than they all.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?

Women are only told that they resemble angels when they are young and beautiful; consequently, it is their persons, not their virtues, that procure them homage.

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.