Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

Nor Bring, To See Me Cease To Live, Some Doctor Full Of Phrase And Fame, To Shake His Sapient Head, And Give The Ill He Cannot Cure A Name.

Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

Beautiful City! . . . Spreading Her Gardens To The Moonlight, And Whispering From Her Towers The Last Enchantments Of The Middle Age . . . Her Ineffable Charm. . . . Adorable Dreamer, Whose Heart Has Been So Romantic!

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

Protestantism Has The Method Of Jesus With His Secret Too Much Left Out Of Mind; Catholicism Has His Secret With His Method Too Much Left Out Of Mind; Neither Has His Unerring Balance, His Intuition, His Sweet Reasonableness. But Both Have Hold Of A Great Truth, And Get From It A Great Power.