It Is Curious How Tyrannical The Habit

The Soil Out Of Which Such Men As He Are Made Is Good To Be Born On, Good To Live On, Good To Die For And To Be Buried In.

Not What We Give, But What We Share, For The Gift Without The Giver Is Bare.

And What Is So Rare As A Day In June? Then, If Ever, Come Perfect Days.

Whom The Heart Of Man Shuts Out, Sometimes The Heart Of God Takes In, And Fences Them All Round About With Silence Mid The Worlds Loud Din.

A Woman's Love Is Mighty, But A Mother's Heart Is Weak, And By Its Weakness Overcomes.