None But God Can Fill The Perfect

I Am Tired Of Looking On What Is, One Might As Well See Beauty Never More, As Look Upon It With An Empty Eye. I Would This World Were Over. I Am Tired.

Blest Is He Whose Heart Is The Home Of The Great Dead And Their Great Thoughts.

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.

Oh, Could We Lift The Future's Sable Shroud.

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.