It is not mine to run, [98].

It is not prayer, This clamor, [129].

It is not the deed we do, [163].

It is not the wall of stone without, [35].

It isn't the thing you do, [251].

It is the evening hour, [206].

It is worth while to live, [39].

It matters little where I was born, [33].

It passeth knowledge, that dear love of thine, [239].

It singeth low in every heart, [275].