Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

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

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

Love that endures, from life that disappears!