Time Can Make Soft That Iron Wood.

But You Were Something More Than Young And Sweet And Fair, - And The Long Year Remembers You.

I Will Be The Gladdest Thing Under The Sun! I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

For The Body At Best Is A Bundle Of Aches, Longing For Rest; It Cries When It Wakes.

I Would I Were Alive Again To Kiss The Fingers Of The Rain, To Drink Into My Eyes The Shine Of Every Slanting Silver Line, To Catch The Freshened, Fragrant Breeze From Drenched And Dripping Apple-trees. For Soon The Shower Will Be Done, And Then The Broad Face Of The Sun Will Laugh Above The Rain-soaked Earth Until The World With Answering Mirth Shakes Joyously, And Each Round Drop Rolls Twinkling, From Its Grass-blade Top.

Father, I Beg Of Thee A Little Task To Dignify My Days, 'tis All I Ask.