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!

Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.

The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.

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

Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.

But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.

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