The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 'Let no one be called happy till his death;' to which I would add, 'Let no one, till his death, be called unhappy.'

Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.

Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

In your patience ye are strong.

How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.

Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.