Man has never been the same since God died.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

There is no shelter in you anywhere.

Time can make soft that iron wood.

We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.

You wrote me a beautiful letter, I wonder if you meant it to be as beautiful as it was. I think you did; for somehow I know that your feeling for me, however slight it is, is of the nature of love... When you tell me to come, I will come, by the next train, just as I am. This is not meekness, be assured; I do not come naturally by meekness; know that it is a proud surrender to You.

Life must go on; I forget just why.