Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.

Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!

A sermon is no sermon in which I cannot hear the heartbeat.