At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.

Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Friends are ourselves.

The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.

Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.