To A Close Shorn Sheep, God Gives

It's A Wicked Thing To Make A Dearth Ones Garner.

There Would Be No Great Ones, If There Were No Little Ones.

Grief Melts Away Like Snow In May, As If There Were No Such Cold Thing.

A Holy Habit Clenseth Not A Foule Soule.

There Is No Man, Though Never So Little, But Sometimes He Can Hurt.