More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.

Why stand we here trembling around, calling on God for help, and not ourselves, in whom God dwells?

The vision of Christ that thou dost see Is my vision's greatest enemy.

My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.

I am more famed in Heaven for my works than I could well conceive. In my brain are studies & chambers filled with books & pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of Eternity before my mortal life; and whose works are the delight & study of Archangels. Why, then, should I be anxious about the riches or fame of mortality?

The cut worm forgives the plow.

The child's toys and the old man's reasons are the fruits of two seasons.