At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow

Nature Hath No Goal Though She Hath Law.

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

The World Is A Great Volume, And Man The Index Of That Book; Even In The Body Of Man, You May Turn To The Whole World.

Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

How Much Shall I Be Changed, Before I Am Changed!