Imagination Is The Air Of Mind.

Lips Like Rosebuds Peeping Out Of Snow.

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.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

It Is Much Less What We Do Than What We Think, Which Fits Us For The Future.

Wan Night, The Shadow Goer, Came Stepping In.