I who still pray at morning and at eve Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed, Thrice stirred below conscious self Have felt that perfect disenthrallment which is God.

In creating, the only hard thing is to begin: a grass blade's no easier to make than an oak.

Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.

Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.

Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.

Once to every person and nation come the moment to decide. In the conflict of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side.

An appeal to the reason of the people has never been known to fail in the long run.