The Lily Is All In White, Like

The Best Of Friends Fall Out, And So His Teeth Had Done Some Years Ago.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!

I Remember, I Remember The Roses, Red And White, The Violets, And The Lily-cups, Those Flowers Made Of Light! The Lilacs, Where The Robin Built, And Where My Brother Set The Laburmum On His Birthday,- The Tree Is Living Yet.