Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we paid for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!

Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.

There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.

Prayer for worldly goods is worse than fruitless, but prayer for strength of soul is that passion of the soul which catches the gift it seeks.

What a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life!

Poetry is talking on tiptoe.

Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.