I Worked With Patience Which

Suddenly, As Rare Things Will, It Vanished.

Love Me Sweet With All Thou Art Feeling, Thinking, Seeing; Love Me In The Lightest Part, Love Me In Full Being.

Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As Cold And Flat As Graveyard Stones.

A Child's Kiss Set On Thy Sighing Lips Shall Make Thee Glad; A Poor Man Served By Thee Shall Make Thee Rich; A Sick Man Helped By Thee Shall Make Thee Strong; Thou Shalt Be Served Thyself By Every Sense Of Service Which Thou Renderest.

What We Call Life Is A Condition Of The Soul. And The Soul Must Improve In Happiness And Wisdom, Except By Its Own Fault. These Tears In Our Eyes, These Faintings Of The Flesh, Will Not Hinder Such Improvement.