God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.

Desire joy and thank God for it. Renounce it, if need be, for other's sake. That's joy beyond joy.

Paracelsus At times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages’ way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted out — not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again.

Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.

We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

Art remains the one way possible of speaking truth.