There Are Souls In This World Which

For The Infinite Has Sowed His Name In The Heavens In Burning Stars, But On The Earth He Has Sowed His Name In Tender Flowers.

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.

Has It Never Occurred To Us, When Surrounded By Sorrows, That They May Be Sent To Us Only For Our Instruction, As We Darken The Eyes Of Birds When We Wish Them To Sing?

It Is Simpler And Easier To Flatter People Than To Praise Them.

As Winter Strips The Leaves From Around Us, So That We May See The Distant Regions They Formerly Concealed, So Old Age Takes Away Our Enjoyments Only To Enlarge The Prospect Of The Coming Eternity.