And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness; Round our restlessness, His rest.

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

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

A great man leaves clean work behind him, and requires no sweeper up of the chips.

God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song.

Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.

"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."