Nature is so perfect that the Trinity couldn't have fashioned her any more perfect. She is an organ on which our Lord plays and the devil works the bellows.
Modern poets add a lot of water to their ink.
Unrest and uncertainty are our lot.
Talk well of the absent whenever you have the opportunity.
If it is the greatest truth that you seek, the plants can direct you.
Our destiny often looks like a fruit-tree in winter. Who would think from its pitiable aspect that those rigid boughs, those rough twigs could next spring again be green, bloom, and even bear fruit? Yet we hope it, we know it.