I Love Thee, As The Good Love

Though The Mills Of God Grind Slowly, Yet They Grind Exceeding Small; Though With Patience He Stands Waiting, With Exactness Grinds He All.

'twas Easter-sunday. The Full-blossomed Trees Filled All The Air With Fragrance And With Joy.

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay.

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

Some Must Follow And Some Command, Through All Are Made Oclay.