I Think, Am Sure, A

Be Sure That God Ne'er Dooms To Waste The Strength He Deigns Impart.

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

Who Knows But The World May End Tonight

For Life, With All Its Yields Of Joy And Woe Is Just A Chance O' The Prize Of Learning Love.

How Very Hard It Is To Be A Christian!