When We Have Broken Our God Of

I Do Not Wonder At A Snowflake, A Shell, A Summer Landscape, Or The Glory Of The Stars; But At The Necessity Of Beauty Under Which The Universe Lies.

Converse With A Mind That Is Grandly Simple, And Literature Looks Like Word-catching. The Simplest Utterances Are Worthiest To Bewritten, Yet Are They So Cheap, And So Things Of Course, That, In The Infinite Riches Of The Soul, It Is Like Gathering A Few Pebbles Off The Ground, Or Bottling A Little Air In A Phial, When The Whole Earth And The Whole Atmosphere Are Ours.

As Long As A Man Stands In His Own Way, Everything Seems To Be In His Way.

Sleep Is Not, Death Is Not; Who Seem To Die Live. House You Were Born In, Friends Of Your Spring-time, Old Man And Young Maid, Day's Toil And It's Guerdon, They Are All Vanishing, Fleeing To Fables, Cannot Be Moored

The Oversoul Is Before Time, And Time, Father Of All Else, Is One Of His Children.