Evil Then Results From Imperfection.

The Sun, Centre And Sire Of Light, The Keystone Of The World-built Arch Of Heaven.

For As Nightingales Do Upon Glow-worms Feed, So Poets Live Upon The Living Light.

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

Love Spends His All, And Still Hath Store.

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.