New Angel Mine, Unhoped For In The

The Music Soars Within The Little Lark, And The Lark Soars.

You Believe In God, For Your Part?--that He Who Makes Can Make Good Things From Ill Things, Best From Worst, As Men Plant Tulips Upon Dunghills When They Wish Them Finest.

Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing But Too Much Sun.

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

A Man May Love A Woman Perfectly, And Yet By No Means Ignorantly Maintain A Thousand Women Have Not Larger Eyes. Enough That She Alone Has Looked At Him With Eyes That, Large Or Small, Have Won His Soul.