The only just literary critic," he concluded, "is Christ, who admires more than does any man the gifts He Himself has bestowed.

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

I have no help to send, therefore I must go myself.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

His face was sad and stern because of the doom that was laid on him, and yet hope dwelt ever in the depths of his heart, from which mirth would arise at times like a spring from a rock.

And there was Frodo, pale and worn, and yet himself again; and in his eyes there was peace now, neither strain of will, nor madness, nor any fear. His burden was taken away.

Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.