My Soul Is Awakened, My Spirit Is

Reading Is My Favourite Occupation, When I Have Leisure For It And Books To Read.

You Cannot Expect Stone To Be As Pliable As Clay.

Yet, Should Thy Darkest Fears Be True, If Heaven Be So Severe, That Such A Soul As Thine Is Lost, Oh! How Shall I Appear?

There Is Always A But In This Imperfect World.

The Bud, Though Plucked, Would Not Be Withered, Only Transplanted To A Fitter Soil To Ripen And Blow Beneath A Brighter Sun; And Though I Might Not Cherish And Watch My Child's Unfolding Intellect, He Would Be Snatched Away From All The Suffering And Sins Of Earth; And My Understanding Tells Me This Would Be No Great Evil; But My Heart Shrinks From The Contemplation Of Such A Possibility, And Whispers I Could Not Bear To See Him Die.