The Human Soul Is God's

Selfishness Is That Detestable Vice Which No One Will Forgive In Others, And No One Is Without Himself.

Our Yearnings Are Homesicknesses For Heaven; Our Sighings Are For God, Just As Children That Cry Themselves Asleep Away From Home, And Sob In Their Slumber, Know Not That They Sob For Their Parents. The Soul's Inarticulate Moanings Are The Affections Yearning For The Infinite, And Having No One To Tell Them What It Is That Ails Them.

He Who Is False To Present Duty Breaks A Thread In The Loom, And Will Find The Flaw When He May Have Forgotten Its Cause.

Our Moral Faculties Must Be Placed Highest, Else They Can No More Flourish Than Could A Plant Growing Under The Shade And Drip Of Trees.

There Are Joys Which Long To Be Ours. God Sends Ten Thousands Truths, Which Come About Us Like Birds Seeking Inlet; But We Are Shut Up To Them, And So They Bring Us Nothing, But Sit And Sing Awhile Upon The Roof, And Then Fly Away.