Father of rosy day,
No more thy clouds of incense rise;
But waking flow'rs,
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Father of rosy day,
No more thy clouds of incense rise;
But waking flow'rs,
At morning hours,
Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

Such words fall to often on our cold and careless ears with the
triteness of long familiarity; but to read more

Such words fall to often on our cold and careless ears with the
triteness of long familiarity; but to Octavia . . . they seemed
to be written in sunbeams.

The sun, which passeth through pollutions and itself remains as
pure as before.

The sun, which passeth through pollutions and itself remains as
pure as before.

Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes
down.

Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes
down.

Make hay while the sun shines.

Make hay while the sun shines.

Out of the solar walk and Heaven's highway.

Out of the solar walk and Heaven's highway.

The sun, centre and sire of light,
The keystone of the world-built arch of heaven.

The sun, centre and sire of light,
The keystone of the world-built arch of heaven.

See the gold sunshine patching,
And streaming and streaking across
The gray-green oaks; and catching,
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See the gold sunshine patching,
And streaming and streaking across
The gray-green oaks; and catching,
By its soft brown beard, the moss.

The great duties of life are written with a sunbeam.

The great duties of life are written with a sunbeam.