I Am Athirst For God,

Work Is Its Own Best Earthly Meed, Else Have We None More Than The Sea-born Throng Who Wrought Those Marvellous Isles That Bloom Afar.

There Is But Halting For The Wearied Foot; The Better Way Is Hidden. Faith Hath Failed; One Stronger Far Than Reason Mastered Her. It Is Not Reason Makes Faith Hard, But Life.

Crowds Of Bees Are Giddy With Clover Crowds Of Grasshoppers Skip At Our Feet, Crowds Of Larks At Their Matins Hang Over, Thanking The Lord For A Life So Sweet.

I Don't Want To Die. But I Want To Be Dead.

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.