It Is The End Of Art To

There Can Be No Barrenness In Full Summer. The Very Sand Will Yield Something. Rocks Will Have Mosses, And Every Rift Will Have Its Wind-flower, And Every Crevice A Leaf; While From The Fertile Soil Will Be Reared A Gorgeous Troop Of Growths, That Will Carry Their Life In Ten Thousand Forms, But All With Praise To God. And So It Is When The Soul Knows Its Summer. Love Redeems Its Weakness, Clothes Its Barrenness, Enriches Its Poverty, And Makes Its Very Desert To Bud And Blossom As The Rose.

There Is No Part Of Government Which Cannot Better Suffer Derangement Than The Ballot. If You Strike The Ballot With Disease, It Is Heart Disease.

Not Thine The Sorrow, But Ours, Sainted Soul! Thou Hast Indeed Entered Into The Promised Land, While We Are Yet On The March. To Us Remain The Rocking Of The Deep, The Storm Upon The Land, Days Of Duty And Nights Of Watching; But Thou Are Sphered High Above All Darkness And Fear, Beyond All Sorrow And Weariness. Rest, Oh, Weary Heart!

The Continuance And Frequent Fits Of Anger Produce In The Soul A Propensity To Be Angry; Which Oftentimes Ends In Choler, Bitterness, And Moronity, When The Mid Becomes Ulcerated, Peevish, And Querulous, And Is Wounded By The Least Occurrence.

Your Greatest Pleasure Is That Which Rebounds From Hearts That You Have Made Glad.