Truth Is Poetry; It Is The Grandest

Genius Is The Accumulated Wealth Of Our Humanity--its Most Intense Development Concentrated At One Point, And Then With Clearer Expression And With Mysterious Power Shot Back To Us Across The Galvanic Lines Of Thought And Feeling.

The Unmerciful Man Is Most Certainly An Unblessed Man. His Sympathies Are All Dried Up; He Is Afflicted With A Chronic Jaundice, And Lives Timidly And Darkly In A Little, Narrow Rat-hole Of Distrust.

The Way To Overcome Evil Is To Love Something That Is Good.

The Bosom Can Ache Beneath Diamond Brooches; And Many A Blithe Heart Dances Under Coarse Wool.

In The Isolation Of His Clear, Cold Intellect, The Sceptic Abides In A Glacial And Spectral Universe. No Glow From The Affections Lights Up The Frost And Shadow Of The Grave. He Feels No Prophecy In The Thrill Of The Human Heart-in The Incompleteness Of Nature. He Believes Merely In Things Tangible, And Sees Only In The Daytime. He Will Not Confess The Authenticity Of That Paler Light Of Faith Which Was Meant To Shine When The Sunshine Of Reason Falls Short, And The Firmament Of Mystery Is Over Our Heads.