God Is The Perfect Poet, Who In

Fair Or Foul The Lot Apportioned Life On Earth, We Bear Alike.

God! Thou Art Love! I Build My Faith On That.

And Gain Is Gain, However Small.

What A Thing Friendship Is - World Without End.

Paracelsus At Times I Almost Dream I Too Have Spent A Life The Sages’ Way, And Tread Once More Familiar Paths. Perchance I Perished In An Arrogant Self-reliance Ages Ago; And In That Act A Prayer For One More Chance Went Up So Earnest, So Instinct With Better Light Let In By Death, That Life Was Blotted Out — Not So Completely But Scattered Wrecks Enough Of It Remain, Dim Memories, As Now, When Once More Seems The Goal In Sight Again.