Every Day Is A Sabbath To Me.

Communing With God Is Communing With Our Own Hearts, Our Own Best Selves, Not With Something Foreign And Accidental. Saints And Devotees Have Gone Into The Wilderness To Find God; Of Course They Took God With Them, And The Silence And Detachment Enabled Them To Hear The Still, Small Voice Of Their Own Souls, As One Hears The Ticking Of His Own Watch In The Stillness Of The Night.

The Countries Outside The Non-proliferation Treaty Also Are Bound By That Obligation [ Article Six Of The Treaty] According To, At Least It's A Strong Implication Of, A 1996 Opinion Of The International Court Of Justice.

I Still Find Each Day Too Short For All The Thoughts I Want To Think, All The Walks I Want To Take, All The Books I Want To Read, And All The Friends I Want To See.

The Sunbeams Are Welcome Now. They Seem Like Pure Electricity—like Friendly And Recuperating Lightning. Are We Led To Think Electricity Abounds Only In Summer, When We See In The Storm-clouds As It Were, The Veins And Ore-beds Of It? I Imagine It Is Equally Abundant In Winter, And More Equable And Better Tempered. Who Ever Breasted A Snowstorm Without Being Excited And Exhilarated, As If This Meteor Had Come Charged With Latent Auroræ Of The North, As Doubtless It Has? It Is Like Being Pelted With Sparks From A Battery.

The Tendinous Part Of The Mind, So To Speak, Is More Developed In Winter; The Fleshy, In Summer. I Should Say Winter Had Given The Bone And Sinew To Literature, Summer The Tissues And The Blood.