The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

The smile that flickers on a baby’s lips when he sleeps- does anyone know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumor that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning.

When I think of ages past That have floated down the stream Of life and love and death, I feel how free it makes us To pass away.

The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my child.

Those who have everything but thee, my God, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself.

The touch of an infinite mystery passes over the trivial and the familiar, making it break out into ineffable music... The trees, the stars, and the blue hills ache with a meaning which can never be uttered in words.