Whatever You Truly Conceive Of

I Will Tell You Where There Is Power: Where The Dew Lies Upon The Hills, And The Rain Has Moistened The Roots Of The Various Plant; Where The Sunshine Pours Steadily; Where The Brook Runs Babbling Along, There Is A Beneficent Power.

It Takes Something Of A Poet To Apprehend And Get Into The Depth, The Lusciousness, The Spiritual Life Of A Great Poem. And So We Must Be In Some Way Like God In Order That We May See God As He Is.

In The Isolation Of His Clear, Cold Intellect, The Sceptic Abides In A Glacial And Spectral Universe. No Glow From The Affections Lights Up The Frost And Shadow Of The Grave. He Feels No Prophecy In The Thrill Of The Human Heart-in The Incompleteness Of Nature. He Believes Merely In Things Tangible, And Sees Only In The Daytime. He Will Not Confess The Authenticity Of That Paler Light Of Faith Which Was Meant To Shine When The Sunshine Of Reason Falls Short, And The Firmament Of Mystery Is Over Our Heads.

Death Makes A Beautiful Appeal To Charity. When We Look Upon The Dead Form, So Composed And Still, The Kindness And The Love That Are In Us All Come Forth.

The True Church Is Not An Institution To Be Kept Apart From The World Because The World "is Common And Unclean," But A Vital Heart Of Truth And Love, Beating With The Life Of Jesus, And Sending Abroad Its Sanctifying Pulsations Until Nothing Shall Be Common And Unclean.