And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.

If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.

In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.

But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.

I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.