Art is much, but love is more.

Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.

My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.