We reap as we have sown.
There is seldom a line of glory written upon earth’s face, but a line of suffering runs parallel with it; and they that read the lustrous syllables of the one, and stoop not to decipher the spotted and worn inscription of the other, get the least half of the lesson that earth has to give.
Leaf green on ground of white,
My name, I fain would write
That you remember still
In June or in December chill,
We two are friends.