What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

The essence of all beauty, I call love.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.

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

Eve is a twofold mystery.