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.

If God made poets for anything, it was to keep alive the traditions of the pure, the holy, and the beautiful.

Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes... The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling.

Time makes ancient good uncouth.

No man can produce great things who is not thoroughly sincere in dealing with himself.

One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.

Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still.