When Pride Thaws, Look For Floods.

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.

Life's But A Means Unto An End, That End, Beginning, Mean, And End To All Things--god.

Any Heart Turned Godward Feels More Joyin One Short Hour Of Prayer, Than E'er Was Raisedby All The Feasts Of Earth Since Its Foundation.

Respect Is What We Owe; Love, What We Give.

Men Might Be Better If We Better Deemed Of Them.