He who loves best his fellow-man, is loving God the holiest way he can.

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.

I hold that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen; that when We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds Of love to men.

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.

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.

True worth is in being, not seeming- In doing, each day that goes by, Some little good, not in the dreaming Of great things to do by and by. For whatever men say in their blindness, And spite of the fancies of youth, There's nothing so kingly as kindness, And nothing so royal as truth.