April 19

In heaven their angels do always behold the face of My Father.

THEREFORE no song of mine,— But prayer in place of singing; prayer that would Commend thee to the new-creating God, Whose gift is childhood's heart without its stain Of weakness, ignorance, and changing vain-- That gift of God be thine!

So wilt thou aye be young, In lovelier childhood than thy shining brow And pretty winning accents make thee now. Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate sound (How sweet!) of "Father," "Mother," shall be found The ABBA on thy tongue.

And so, as years shall chase Each other's shadows, thou wilt less resemble Thy fellows of the earth who toil and tremble, Than him thou seest not, thine angel bold Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold The Ever-loving's face.

ELIZA- BETH BARRETT BROWNING

THE CHILD IDEAL