Know How Sublime A Thing It Is

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

The Country Is Not Priest-ridded, But Press-ridden.

Saint Augustine! Well Hast Thou Said, That Of Our Vices We Can Frame A Ladder, If We Will But Tread Beneath Our Feet Each Deed Of Shame.

To Be Seventy Years Old Is Like Climbing The Alps. You Reach A Snow-crowned Summit, And See Behind You The Deep Valley Stretching Miles And Miles Away, And Before You Other Summits Higher And Whiter, Which You May Have Strength To Climb, Or May Not. Then You Sit Down And Meditate And Wonder Which It Will Be.

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.