Oh, The Little Birds Sang East, And

What We Call Life Is A Condition Of The Soul. And The Soul Must Improve In Happiness And Wisdom, Except By Its Own Fault. These Tears In Our Eyes, These Faintings Of The Flesh, Will Not Hinder Such Improvement.

But Love Me For Love's Sake, That Evermore Thou May'st Love On, Through Love's Eternity.

Wall Must Get The Weather Stain Before They Grow The Ivy.

God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can Make Us Poor.

Tis Aye A Solemn Thing To Me To Look Upon A Babe That Sleeps-- Wearing In Its Spirit-deeps The Unrevealed Mystery Of Its Adam's Taint And Woe, Which, When They Revealed Lie, Will Not Let It Slumber So.