It Is Hard Work To Control The

The Human And Fallible Should Not Arrogate A Power With Which The Divine And Perfect Alone Can Be Safely Intrusted.

There's No Use In Weeping, Though We Are Condemned To Part: There's Such A Thing As Keeping, A Remembrance In One's Heart.

It Is Hard Work To Control The Workings Of Inclination And Turn The Bent Of Nature; But That It May Be Done, I Know From Experience. God Has Given Us, In A Measure, The Power To Make Our Own Fate.

Her Coming Was My Hope Each Day, Her Parting Was My Pain; The Chance That Did Her Steps Delay Was Ice In Every Vein.

I Thought I Loved Him When He Went Away; I Love Him Now In Another Degree: He Is More My Own. [ . . . ] Oh! A Thousand Weepers, Praying In Agony On Waiting Shores, Listened For That Voice, But It Was Not Uttered--not Uttered Till; When The Hush Came, Some Could Not Feel It: Till, When The Sun Returned, His Light Was Night To Some!