To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch and then to lose: To see my bright ones disappear, Drawn up like morning dews. - Jean Ingelow

The while He sits whose name is Love, And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, To wit if she would fly to him. He waits for us, while, houseless things, We beat about with bruised wings On the dark floods and water-springs, The ruined world, the desolate sea; With open windows from the prime All night, all day, He waits sublime,
Until the fulness of the time Decreed from His eternity.

O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep,
Thou bearest angels to us in the night,
Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light
Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep;
Love is a pouting child.

Our own faces, seen suddenly, will sometimes tell us things concerning ourselves that we did not suspect before.