A Heretic, My Dear Sir,

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

The Darkest Day, If You Live Till Tomorrow, Will Have Passed Away.

Learning Itself, Received Into A Mind By Nature Weak, Or Viciously Inclined, Serves But To Lead Philosophers Astray, Where Children Would With Ease Discern The Way.

Gardening Imparts An Organic Perspective On The Passage Of Time.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face. His Purposes Will Ripen Fast, Unfolding Every Hour;the Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flow’r. Blind Unbelief Is Sure To Err And Scan His Work In Vain; God Is His Own Interpreter, And He Will Make It Plain.