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With silence only as their benediction, God's angels come Where in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb!

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead.

Method goes far to prevent trouble in business: for it makes the task easy, hinders confusion, saves abundance of time, and instructs those that have business depending, both what to do and what to hope.

As a small businessperson, you have no greater leverage than the truth.

Feast of Cyril & Methodius, Missionaries to the Slavs, 869 & 885 Commemoration of Valentine, Martyr at Rome, c.269 I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin. Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings I know that God is good!

Continuing a short series on forgiveness: When on my day of life the night is falling, And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown, Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant Leave not its tenant when its walls decay; O Love Divine, O Helper ever-present, Be Thou my strength and stay! Be near me when all else is from me drifting; Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine, And kindly faces to my own uplifting The love that answers mine. I have but Thee, my Father! let Thy spirit Be with me then to comfort and uphold; No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit, Nor street of shining gold. Suffice it if -- my good and ill unreckoned, And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace - I find myself by hands familiar beckoned Unto my fitting place.

Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace; East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease; Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing the glory to God and of good-will to man!

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.

Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!

Simply duty hath no place for fear.

The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewey cup She pours her sacred wine.

When faith is lost, when honor dies, the man is dead.

Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.

Cast not the clouded gem away, Quench not the dim but living ray,-- My brother man, Beware! With that deep voice which from the skies Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice. God's angel, cries, Forbear!

And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.

Peace hath higher tests of manhood Than battle ever knew.

God gives quietness at last.

Of all the words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these... it might have been.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: "It might have been!".