He Loves But Little Who Can Say

Your Fame Is As The Grass, Whose Hue Comes And Goes, And His Might Withers It By Whose Power It Sprang From The Lap Of The Earth.

Worldly Fame Is But A Breath Of Wind That Blows Now This Way, And Now That, And Changes Name As It Changes Direction.

Seldom Indeed Does Human Virtue Rise From Trunk To Branch.

Nature Is The Art Of God.

As Flowerlets Drooped And Puckered In The Night Turn Up To The Returning Sun And Spread Their Petals Wide On His New Warmth And Light-just So My Wilted Spirits Rose Again And Such A Heat Of Zeal Surged Through My Veins That I Was Born Anew.