But The Child's Sob Curses Deeper In

God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can Make Us Poor.

Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O My Brothers?

So Mothers Have God's License To Be Missed.

For None Can Express Thee, Though All Should Approve Thee. I Love Thee So, Dear, That I Only Can Love Thee.

Who Can Fear Too Many Stars, Though Each In Heaven Shall Roll- Too Many Flowers, Though Each Shall Crown The Year? Say Thou Dost Love Me, Love Me, Love Me-toll The Silver Iterance!-only Minding, Dear, To Love Me Also In Silence, With Thy Soul.