The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.

What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.