Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!
Who knows but the world may end tonight
God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.
Lose who may-I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!