A Man That Is Afraid Is Never

A Man Ought To Carry Himself In The World As An Orange Tree Would If It Could Walk Up And Down In The Garden, Swinging Perfume From Every Little Censer It Holds Up In The Air.

Our Life Is In The Loom; It Rolls Up And Is Hidden As Fast As It Is Woven. It Is To Be Taken Out Of The Loom Only When We Leave This World; Then Only Shall We See The Pattern.

The Meanest, Most Contemptible Kind Of Praise Is That Which First Speaks Well Of A Man, And Then Qualifies It With A But.

God Is Like Us To This Extent, That Whatever In Us Is Good Is Like God.

Not Thine The Sorrow, But Ours, Sainted Soul! Thou Hast Indeed Entered Into The Promised Land, While We Are Yet On The March. To Us Remain The Rocking Of The Deep, The Storm Upon The Land, Days Of Duty And Nights Of Watching; But Thou Are Sphered High Above All Darkness And Fear, Beyond All Sorrow And Weariness. Rest, Oh, Weary Heart!