I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

When Thou Are Not Pleased, Beloved, Then My Heart Is Sad And Darkened, As The Shining River Darkens When The Clouds Drop Shadows On It! When Thou Smilest, My Beloved, Then My Troubled Heart Is Brightened, As In Sunshine Gleam The Ripples That The Cold Wind Makes In Rivers.

Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

How Absolute And Omnipotent Is The Silence Of Night! And Yet The Stillness Seems Almost Audible! From All The Measureless Depths Of Air Around Us Comes A Half-sound, A Half-whisper, As If We Could Hear The Crumbling And Falling Away Of Earth And All Created Things, In The Great Miracle Of Nature, Decay And Reproduction, Ever Beginning, Never Ending,--the Gradual Lapse And Running Of The Sand In The Great Hour-glass Of Time.

Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into Freedom.