Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

Let us labor for an inward stillness-- An inward stillness and an inward healing. That perfect silence where the lips and heart Are still, and we no longer entertain Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions, But God alone speaks to us and we wait In singleness of heart that we may know His will, and in the silence of our spirits, That we may do His will and do that only

For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.

Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.