As The Master So The Valet.

If All Were Rich, Gold Would Be Penniless.

Night Comes, World-jewelled, . . . The Stars Rush Forth In Myriads As To Wage War With The Lines Of Darkness; And The Moon, Pale Ghost Of Night, Comes Haunting The Cold Earth After The Sun's Red Sea-death--quietless.

Surely The Stars Are Images Of Love.

Not A Single Path Of Thought I Tread, But That It Leads To God.

We Live In Deeds, Not Years; In Thoughts, Not Breaths; In Feelings, Not In Figures On A Dial.