The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
There is creation in the eye.
Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.