T is the work of many a dark hour, many a prayer, to bring the heart back from an infant gone.

Some noble spirits mistake despair for content.

There is to me a daintiness about early flowers that touches me like poetry. They blow out with such a simple loveliness among the common herbs of pastures, and breathe their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts whose beatings are too gentle for the world.

The position you hold and the work you are now doing.

If there is anything that keeps the mind open to angel visits, and repels the ministry of ill, it is human love.

The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune fitfully on the skylight, and the shade of the fast-flying clouds across my book passed with delicate change.

The highest triumph of art, is the truest presentation of nature.