All Parts Of Knowledge Have Their Origin

All Is Finite In The Present; And Even That Finite Is Infinite In It Velocity Of Flight Towards Death. But In God There Is Nothing Finite...upon A Night Of Earthquake He Builds A Thousand Years Of Pleasant Habitations For Man. Upon The Sorrow Of An Infant He Raises Oftentimes From Human Intellects Glorious Vintages That Could Not Else Have Been.

Enough If Every Age Produce Two Or Three Critics Of This Esoteric Class, With Here And There A Reader To Understand Them.

Grief Even In A Child Hates The Light And Shrinks From Human Eyes.

Far Better, And More Cheerfully, I Could Dispense With Some Part Of The Downright Necessaries Of Life, Than With Certain Circumstances Of Elegance And Propriety In The Daily Habits Of Using Them.

Flowers That Are So Pathetic In Their Beauty, Frail As The Clouds, And In Their Coloring As Gorgeous As The Heavens, Had Through Thousands Of Years Been The Heritage Of Children - Honored As The Jewelry Of God.