I Am Glad To Think I Am

How Gently Rock Yon Poplars High Against The Reach Of Primrose Sky With Heaven's Pale Candles Stored.

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.

How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How Long The Sorrowful!

A Healthful Hunger For A Great Idea Is The Beauty And Blessedness Of Life.