Through Every Rift Of Discovery Some Seeming

If Angels Stoop From Visions Of More Than Earthly Beauty To Spells Of Less Than Earthly Worth, They Are But Fallen Angels, Mingling Divine Utterances With The Babblings Of Madness, And The Madness Is Not The Divineness.

There Is A Sweet Anguish Springing Up In Our Bosoms When A Child's Face Brightens Under The Shadow Of The Waiting Angel. There Is An Autumnal Fitness When Age Gives Up The Ghost; And When The Saint Dies There Is A Tearful Victory.

It Takes Something Of A Poet To Apprehend And Get Into The Depth, The Lusciousness, The Spiritual Life Of A Great Poem. And So We Must Be In Some Way Like God In Order That We May See God As He Is.

Modest Expression Is A Beautiful Setting To The Diamond Of Talent And Genius.

The Devil Has Been Painted Swarthy, Cloven-footed, Horned, And Hideous. Do We Expect To See Him In That Shape? O, Surely It Would Be Better For Us, If He Did Come In That Shape! The Trouble Is The Devil Never Does Come In That Shape. He Comes By Chance, With Unregistered Signals, And In All Sorts Of Counterfeit Presentiments.