Words Are The Motes Of Thought, And

Evil Then Results From Imperfection.

The Death-bed Of A Day, How Beautiful!

Poets Are All Who Love, Who Feel Great Truths, And Tell Them; And The Truth Of Truths Is Love.

O, There Is Naught On Earth Worth Being Known But God And Our Own Souls!

Dear Lord, Our God And Saviour! For Thy Gifts The World Were Poor In Thanks, Though Every Soul Were To Do Nought But Breathe Them, Every Blade Of Grass, And Every Atomie Of Earth To Utter It Like Dew.