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.
True worth is in being, not seeming
Nothing in this low and ruined world bears the meek impress of the Son of God so surely as forgiveness.
He who loves best his fellow-man, is loving God the holiest way he can.
Women and men in the crowd meet and mingle, Yet with itself every soul standeth single.
Even for the dead I will not bind my soul to grief, death cannot long divide; for is it not as if the rose that climbed my garden wall had bloomed the other side?