“Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come w…” — Jean Ingelow

And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.

And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.

It is not reason which makes faith hard, but life.

How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.