There is in all this cold and hollow world, No fount of deep, strong,deathless love ;save that within a mother's heart
Though the past haunt me as a spirit, I do not ask to forget.
Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things.
There’s beauty all around our paths,
If but our watchful eyes
Can trace it ’midst familiar things,
And through their lowly guise.
Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?
Passing away" is written on the world and all the world contains.
A passion for flowers, is, I think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence.
life's best balm - Forgetfulness!
Come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountain with light and song:
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.
I had a hat. It was not all a hat,-Part of the brim was gone:Yet still I wore it on.
Oh, call my brother back to me!I cannot play alone:The summer comes with flower and bee,-Where is my brother gone?
The stately Homes of England,How beautiful they stand!Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land.
We pine for kindred natures To mingle with our own.
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod,
They have left unstained, what there they found,-
Freedom to worship God.
There is strength deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck but little till the shafts of heaven have pierced its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent before her gems are found?
Alas! for love, if thou art all,
And nought beyond, O earth.
Oh! lovely voices of the sky
Which hymned the Saviour's birth,
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"?
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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