The trees bathed their great heads in the waves of the morning, while their roots were planted deep in gloom; save where on the borders of the sunshine broke against their stems, or swept in long streams through their avenues, washing with brighter hue all the leaves over which it flowed; revealing the rich brown of the dacayed leaves and fallen pine-cones, and the delicate greens of the long grasses and tiny forests of moss that covered the channel over which it passed in the motionless rivers of light.

One thing is clear to me, that no indulgence of passion destroys the spiritual nature so much as respectable selfishness.

But we believe – nay, Lord we only hope, That one day we shall thank thee perfectly For pain and hope and all that led or drove Us back into the bosom of thy love.

We must do the thing we must Before the thing we may; We are unfit for any trust Till we can and do obey.

The ideal is the only absolute real; and it must become the real in the individual life as well, however impossible they may count it who never tried it.

What does God want me to do?”, not “What will God do if I do so and so?

I am an emptiness for Thee to fill; my soul a cavern for Thy sea