What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.

The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!

That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.

Silence 'tis awe decrees.

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.

God is the perfect poet.