Glory Be To God For Dappled Things.

And For All This, Nature Is Never Spent; There Lives The Dearest Freshness Deep Down Things; And Though The Last Lights Off The Black West Went Oh, Morning, At The Brown Brink Eastward, Springs— Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.

Searching Nature I Taste Self But At One Tankard, That Of My Own Being.

For Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places,/ Lovely In Limbs, And Lovely In Eyes Not His/ To The Father Through The Features Of Men’s Faces.

Religion, You Know, Enters Very Deep; In Reality It Is The Deepest Impression I Have In Speaking To People, That They Are Or That They Are Not Of My Religion.

I Wake And Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day. What Hours, O What Black Hours We Have Spent This Night!