In This World It Is Not What

Pain Is God's Midwife, That Helps Some Virtue Into Existence.

I Would Much Rather Fight Pride Than Vanity, Because Pride Has A Stand-up Way Of Fighting. You Know Where It Is. It Throws Its Black Shadow On You, And You Are Not At A Loss Where To Strike. But Vanity Is That Delusive, That Insectiferous, That Multiplied Feeling, And Men That Fight Vanities Are Like Men That Fight Midges And Butterflies. It Is Easier To Chase Them Than To Hit Them.

A Man Has No More Religion Than He Acts Out In His Life.

Men Judge Of Christians By Taking As Fair Samples Those That Lie Rotten On The Ground.

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.