There Is No Secret To

Dame Poverty Gave Me My Name, And Pain Godfathered Me.

We Shall Not Always Plant While Others Reap

I Doubt Not God Is Good, Well-meaning, Kind

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.