Genius Is A Steed Too Fiery For

When A Man Can Look Upon The Simple Wild-rose, And Feel No Pleasure, His Taste Has Been Corrupted.

The Blossom Cannot Tell What Becomes Of Its Odor, And No Person Can Tell What Becomes Of His Or Her Influence And Example.

Many Of Our Troubles Are God Dragging Us, And They Would End If We Would Stand Upon Our Feet And Go Whither He Would Have Us Go.

The One Great Poem Of New England Is Her Sunday.

There Is Always Work, And Tools To Work Withal, For Those, Who Will.