Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.