I Shall Die Reading; Since My Book

I Sing The Progress Of A Deathless Soul.

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

Filled With Her Love, May I Be Rather Grown Mad With Much Heart, Than Idiot With None.

For God's Sake Hold Your Tongue, And Let Me Love.

If Every Gnat That Flies Were An Archangel, All That Could But Tell Me That There Is A God; And The Poorest Worm That Creeps Tells Me That.