Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye.

Beholding The Bright Countenance Of Truth In The Quiet And Still Air Of Delightful Studies.

How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth, Stolen On His Wing My Three-and-twentieth Year!

To Be Blind Is Not Miserable; Not To Be Able To Bear Blindness, That Is Miserable.

I Sat Me Down To Watch Upon A Bank With Ivy Canopied And Interwove With Flaunting Honeysuckle.

This Is The Month, And This The Happy Morn, Wherein The Son Of Heaven's Eternal King, Of Wedded Maid And Virgin Mother Born, Our Great Redemption From Above Did Bring.