A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

The Day Is Done, And The Darkness Falls From The Wings Of Night, As A Feather Is Wafted Downward From An Eagle In His Flight.

I Hear The Wind Among The Trees Playing The Celestial Symphonies; I See The Branches Downward Bent, Like Keys Of Some Great Instrument.

Silence And Solitude, The Soul's Best Friends.

What Seems To Us But Dim Funeral Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

We Have Not Wings We Cannot Soar; But, We Have Feet To Scale And Climb, By Slow Degrees, By More And More, The Cloudy Summits Of Our Time.