Your Star.
How deep and wide the ocean;
No eye its depths hath seen
What secrets there are hidden,
Below the briny green.
There are numberless living creeping things,
Both great and small,
And mermaids, too, that sweetly sing;
It’s Him that made them all.
Should you up in the heavens gaze,
Their duplicates you’ll find;
The world is still a closed book,
Each living thing of every kind.
Yet do we ever think how weak,
How helpless, how small we are;
And as I sit and ponder,
Are we likened to a star?
A Moth.
A moth flew into my room last night,
Where the flame turned all into gorgeous light;
It flew ’round about till it finally came
Too near; for it was a cruel flame
And never stopped till it fell to the floor,
Air seared and misshapen; it hopped to the door
There it lay, breathing its last,
For love of a flame its life was past.
Lonely.
One day Nicodemus lay down and died,
And his good little wifey cried and cried.
A few days after he was laid away
Under the sod—deep down in the clay.
The days were so long, how lonely was she,
For he died in the autumn; not a green tree;
She took out his clothes and brushed them so neat,
And patched his pants right over the seat.