Disappointments Are To The Soul

Why Should I Deem Myself To Be A Chisel, When I Could Be The Artist?

Rigor Pushed Too Far Is Sure To Miss Its Aim, However Good, As The Bow Snaps That Is Bent Too Stiffly.

Have Hope. Though Clouds Environs Now, And Gladness Hides Her Face In Scorn, Put Thou The Shadow From Thy Brow, - No Night But Hath Its Morn.

The Universe Is A Thought Of God.

What's Old Collapses, Times Change, And New Life Blossoms In The Ruins.