The snow had begun in the gloaming, and busily all the night had been heaping field and highway with a silence deep and white.

All God's angels come to us disguised.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet does ever flow aright.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

Light is the symbol of truth.

There is only one thing better than tradition and that is the original and eternal life out of which all tradition takes its rise.

The true historical genius, to our thinking, is that which can see the nobler meaning of events that are near him, as the true poet is he who detects the divine in the casual; and we somewhat suspect the depth of his insight into the past who cannot recognize the godlike of to-day under that disguise in which it always visits us.