Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of

All The Live Murmur Of A Summer's Day.

Sanity -- That Is The Great Virtue Of The Ancient Literature; The Want Of That Is The Great Defect Of The Modern, In Spite Of Its Variety And Power.

The Pursuit Of Perfection, Then, Is The Pursuit Of Sweetness And Light.... He Who Works For Sweetness And Light United, Works To Make Reason And The Will Of God Prevail.

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.

I Knew The Mass Of Men Conceal'd Their Thoughts, For Fear That If Reveal'd They Would By Other Men Be Met With Blank Indifference.