Primitive Societies Without Religion Have Never Been

The Wrecks Of Slavery Are Fast Growing A Fungus Crop Of Sentiment.

Wisdom And Goodness Are Twin-born, One Heart Must Hold Both Sisters, Never Seen Apart.

Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom, The Bobolinks Are Singing; Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom The Apple-tree Whispers To The Room, "why Art Thou But A Nest Of Gloom While The Bobolinks Are Singing?

Why Art Thou But A Nest Of Gloom While The Bobolinks Are Singing?

Lord, For The Erring Thought Not Unto Evil Wrought: Lord, For The Wicked Will Betrayed, And Baffled Still: For The Heart From Itself Kept, Our Thanksgiving Accept. For Ignorant Hopes That Were Broken To Our Blind Prayer: For Pain, Death, Sorrow, Sent Unto Our Chastisement: For All Loss Of Seeming Good, Quicken Our Gratitude.