Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively—
"Father! dear father! God has made a star!"
—N. P. Willis.
"COME UNTO ME!"
Art thou weary? Art thou languid?
Art thou sore distrest?