Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O

Why, What Is To Live? Not To Eat And Drink And Breathe,—but To Feel The Life In You Down All The Fibres Of Being, Passionately And Joyfully.

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

Think, In Mounting Higher, The Angels Would Press On Us, And Aspire To Drop Some Golden Orb Of Perfect Song Into Our Deep, Dear Silence.

I Worked With Patience Which Means Almost Power.

Of All The Thoughts Of God That Are Borne Inward Unto Souls Afar, Along The Psalmist's Music Deep, Now Tell Me If That Any Is. For Gift Or Grace, Surpassing This-- He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.