Love Is The River Of Life In

Men Are Not Put Into This World To Be Everlastingly Played On By The Harping Fingers Of Joy.

The Bibliophile Is The Master Of His Books, The Bibliomaniac Their Slave.

What If The Leaves Were To Fall A-weeping, And Say, "it Will Be So Painful For Us To Be Pulled From Our Stalks, When Autumn Comes?" Foolish Fear! Summer Goes, And Autumn Succeeds. The Glory Of Death Is Upon The Leaves; And The Gentlest Breeze That Blows Takes Them Softly And Silently From The Bough, And They Float Slowly Down, Like Fiery Sparks, Upon The Moss.

The Greatest Architect And The One Most Needed Is Hope.

The Soul Is A Temple; And God Is Silently Building It By Night And By Day. Precious Thoughts Are Building It; Disinterested Love Is Building It; All-penetrating Faith Is Building It.