On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honor.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

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