What We Call Results Are Beginnings.

Silent Rushes The Swift Lord Through Ruined Systems Still Restored, Broadsowing, Bleak And Void To Bless, Plants With Worlds The Wilderness; Waters With Tears Of Ancient Sorrow Apples Of Eden Ripe To-morrow. House And Tenant Go To Ground, Lost In God, In Godhead Found.

When I Behold A Rich Landscape, It Is Less To My Purpose To Recite Correctly The Order And Superposition Of The Strata, Than To Know Why All Thought Of Multitude Is Lost In A Tranquil Sense Of Unity.

Conformity Is The Ape Of Harmony.

It Is One Of The Blessings Of Old Friends That You Can Afford To Be Stupid With Them.

No Man Ever Prayed Heartily Without Learning Something.