Sublime

it was also used by one of her favourite martyr-saints—the now Blessed Théophane Vénard. On the manuscript of her Autobiography she set the title: "The Story of the Springtime of a little white Flower," and in truth such it was, for long ere the rigours of life's winter came round, the Flower was blossoming in Paradise.

A lamp am I, aware of your joy in bed: Do what you will, not one word will be said.

A sister had been omitted from the text.

"More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of. In every path, He treads down that which doth befriend him

“All along You thought The fiery current Of your lover’s breast Pulled you to the deep. But it was my heart-tide Releasing you To float adrift With seaweed.”

But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.

Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you wake in the morning hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft starlight at night. Do not stand at my

I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.