He Who Breathes Deepest Lives Most.

And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp Of Things Divine.

What Is Art But The Life Upon The Larger Scale, The Higher. When, Graduating Up In A Spiral Line Of Still Expanding And Ascending Gyres, It Pushes Toward The Intense Significance Of All Things, Hungry For The Infinite?

God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can Make Us Poor.

What We Call Life Is A Condition Of The Soul. And The Soul Must Improve In Happiness And Wisdom, Except By Its Own Fault. These Tears In Our Eyes, These Faintings Of The Flesh, Will Not Hinder Such Improvement.

Measure Not The Work Until The Day's Out And The Labor Done.