Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.

The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.