And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky

The Church must be forever building, for it is forever decaying within and attacked from without.

…Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man, Of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire; Who fear the blessing of God, the loneliness of the night of God, the surrender required, the deprivation inflicted; Who fear the injustice of men less than the justice of God; Who fear the hand at the window, the fire in the thatch, the fist in the tavern, the push into the canal, Less than we fear the love of God.

Cling, swing, Spring, sing, Swing up into the apple tree.

Never commit yourself to a cheese without having first examined it.

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices in the lost lilac and the lost sea voices and the weak spirit quickens to rebel for the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell quickens to recover.