Do Not Judge From Mere

It Is A Great Thing, When Our Gethsemane Hours Come, When The Cup Of Bitterness Is Pressed To Our Lips ... To Feel That It Is Not Fate, That It Is Not Necessity, But Divine Love For Good Ends Working Upon Us.

The Bosom Can Ache Beneath Diamond Brooches; And Many A Blithe Heart Dances Under Coarse Wool.

Not Only Is Music A Beautiful And Sublime Science, The Study Of Which Ennobles And Purifies The Mind Of Its Votary, But How Many And Excellent Are Its Ministries To Others!

Death, Is Not An End, But A Transition Crisis. All The Forms Of Decay Are But Masks Of Regeneration--the Secret Alembics Of Vitality.

The Night Comes For The Purpose Of Checking Our Busy Employment, And Introducing An Interval Of Repose Between The Links Of Our Action And Our Aspiration. It Draws Its Dim Curtain Around The Field Of Toil. It Buries The Objects Of Our Handiwork In Darkness, And Involves Them With Uncertainty. It Comes To The Relief Of The Exhausted Body And The Tired Brain. Our Powers, Harmonizing With The Diurnal Revolutions Of The Earth, Fail With The Failing Light, And A Merciful Providence Casts Around Us This Mantle Of Shadow, And Snatches Us From Our Occupation.