O thou Most High who rulest all
And hear'st the prayers of thine,
O hearken, Lord, unto my suit
And my petition sign.

Into Thy everlasting arms Of mercy
I commend Thy servant, Lord.
Keep and preserve My husband,
my dear friend.

At Thy command, O Lord, he went,
Nor nought could keep him back.
Then let Thy promise joy his heart,
O help and be not slack.

Uphold my heart in Thee, O God.
Thou art my strength and stay,
Thou see'st how weak and frail I am,
Hide not Thy face away.

I in obedience to Thy will

O Love , who all this while hast urged me on,
Shaking the reins, with never any rest,—
Slacken for pity somewhat of thy haste;
I am oppress'd with languor and foredone,—
Having outrun the power of sufferance,—
Having much more endured than who, through faith
That his heart holds, makes no account of death.
Love is assuredly a fair mischance,
And well may it be called a happy ill:
Yet thou, my lady, on this constant sting,
So sharp a thing, have thou some pity still,—
Howbeit a sweet thing too, unless it kill.

O, LOVE is not a summer mood,
— — — Nor flying phantom of the brain,
Nor youthful fever of the blood,
Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance.
Love is not born of blinded chance,
Nor bred in simple ignorance.

Love is the flower of maidenhood;
— — — Love is the fruit of mortal pain;
And she hath winter in her blood.
True love is steadfast as the skies,
And once alight, she never flies;
And love is strong, and love is wise.

O love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!
Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;
And from thy branches every one takes some
Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.
But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,
That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.

O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions,
That love and joye should meet
In self-same fashions!
Oh, who can tell
The cause why this should move?
But onely this,
No reason aske of Love.

O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions,
That love and joye should meet
In self-same fashions!
Oh, who can tell
The cause why this should move?
But onely this,
No reason aske of Love.

1. O Lord, how lovely is the place, Where thou vouch-safst to show thy face,
2. O Lord of Hosts! how blest are they, Who in thine house thy praise display,
In glory, ever bright arrayed; My soul faints for thy blest abode,
Whose hopes in thee are firmly placed; Who with a pious zeal do tread
My heart cries out to see her God With lustre unobscured displayed.
The ways that to thy temple lead; For they shall never be disgraced.
The birds around thy temple throng, And there they build and hatch their young.

O come to me in my dreams love!
When the world is wrapped in sleep,
And the silver moon like virgin queen,
Her lonely vigils keep.
When all is hushed in calm repose—
The earth, and sky, and sea,
Then hasten love to this far-off land,
And dwell one hour with me.

O come to me in my dreams love!
And cheer me on my way;
And bid me look to a higher land
For the dawn of a brighter day.
Then breathe to heaven an earnest prayer
To bless, ere you depart,
With perfect love and childlike faith,
This sad, despondent heart.

O close of night, I would have you linger
Fall into ecstasy
Turn into a magician on my bed
I ask you to tell me:
What does love say to the lover
at the end of the seasons?

O Brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother;
Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there;
To worship rightly is to love each other,
Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.

Follow with reverent steps the great example
Of Him whose holy work was " doing good " ;
So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple,
Each loving life a psalm of gratitude.

Then shall all shackles fall; the stormy clangor
Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease;
Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger,
And in its ashes plant the tree of peace!

Now wolde I faine sum merthes make
All only for my lady's sake
When I her see:
But nowe I am so far fro her
It will not be.

Though I be far out of her sight
I am her man both day and night,
And so will be:
Therfore wolde as I love her
She loved me.

Whan she is mery than am I gladde,
Whan she is sory than am I sadde,
And cause is why:
For he leveth not that loved her
So well as I.

She seith that she hath sein it write
That seldin sein is sone forgeit.
It is not so:
For in good feith, save only her,