Memory can glean, but can never renew. It brings us joys faint as is the perfume of the flowers, faded and dried, of the summer that is gone.

The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.

Truths are first clouds; then rain, then harvest and food.

The humblest individual exerts some influence, either for good or evil, upon others.

The blossom cannot tell what becomes of its odor, and no person can tell what becomes of his or her influence and example.

Pushing any truth out very far, you are met by a counter-truth.

Give us that calm certainty of truth, that nearness to Thee, that conviction of the reality of the life to come, which we shall need to bear us through the troubles of this.