O Love that will not let me go: I rest my weary soul in Thee; I give Thee back the life I owe, That in Thine ocean depths its flow May richer, fuller be.
O Light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to Thee; My heart restores its borrowd ray, That in Thy sunshine's blaze its day May brighter, fairer be.
Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, is a succession of changes so gentle and easy we can scarcely mark their progress . . .
The flowers that sleep by night opened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The light, creation's mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its power.
