I Awoke In The Midsummer

No Wonder Of It: Sheer Plod Makes Plough Down Sillion Shine, And Blue-bleak Embers, Ah My Dear, Fall, Gall Themselves, And Gash Gold-vermilion.

Beauty Is A Relation, And The Apprehension Of It A Comparison.

Any Day, Any Minute We Bless God For Our Being Or For Anything, For Food, For Sunlight, We Do And Are What We Were Meant For, Madefor--things That Give And Mean To Give God Glory.

Let Him Easter In Us, Be A Dayspring To The Dimness Of Us, Be A Crimson-cresseted East.

I Can Scarcely Fancy Myself To Ask A Superior To Publish A Volume Of My Verse And I Own That Humanly There Is Very Little Likelihood Of That Ever Coming To Pass. And To Be Sure If I Chose To Look At Things On One Side And Not The Other I Could Of Course Regret This Bitterly. But There Is More Peace And It Isthe Holier Lot To Be Unknown Than To Be Known.