Children Bring Their Own Love

There's No Dew Left On The Daisies And Clover; There's No Rain Left In Heaven.

From Henceforth Thou Shalt Learn That There Is Love To Long For, Pureness To Desire, A Mount Of Consecration It Were Good To Scale.

When Our Thoughts Are Born, Though They Be Good And Humble, One Should Mind How They Are Reared, Or Some Will Go Astray And Shame Their Mother.

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.

Her Face Betokened All Things Dear And Good, The Light Of Somewhat Yet To Come Was There Asleep, And Waiting For The Opening Day, When Childish Thoughts, Like Flowers Would Drift Away.