Speak gently to the erring: For is it not enough That innocence and peace have gone, Without thy censure rough? - Julia Abigail Fletcher Carney

How oft the word which we would gladly speak Might be, unto some darkly groping soul, The key to bid doubt's massive doors unroll, The free winds' breath upon the prisoner's cheek, Or. to the hungry heart, sweet pity's dole! We hurry on, nor know that they are near, As passed Evangeline the one so dear.

Think gently of the erring: Ye know not of the power With which the dark temptation came In some unguarded hour. Ye may not know how earnestly They struggled, or how well, Until the hour of weakness came, And sadly thus they fell.

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land. Thus the little minutes, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity.