Shut up the door: who loves me must not look / Upon the withered world, but haste to bring / His lighted candle, and his story-book, / And live with me the poetry of spring.

Not what we think, but what we do, / Makes saints of us: all stiff and cold, / The outlines of the corpse show through / The cloth of gold.

Nothing in this low and ruined world bears the meek impress of the Son of God so surely as forgiveness.

The path of duty I clearly trace, / I stand with conscience face to face, / And all her pleas allow; / Calling and crying the while for grace, - / 'Some other time, and some other place; / Oh, not to-day; not now!

I hold that a man had better be dead than alive when his work is done.

I sit where the leaves of the maple and the gnarled and knotted gum are circling and drifting around me.

True worth is in being, not seeming