Wall Must Get The Weather Stain Before

You Believe In God, For Your Part?--that He Who Makes Can Make Good Things From Ill Things, Best From Worst, As Men Plant Tulips Upon Dunghills When They Wish Them Finest.

Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing But Too Much Sun.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.

Souls Are Gregarious In A Sense, But No Soul Touches Another, As A General Rule.

What Is Art But The Life Upon The Larger Scale, The Higher. When, Graduating Up In A Spiral Line Of Still Expanding And Ascending Gyres, It Pushes Toward The Intense Significance Of All Things, Hungry For The Infinite?