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

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

All the great blessings of my life are present in my thoughts today

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.