And With The Morn Those Angel Faces

Every Breath Of Air And Ray Of Light And Heat, Every Beautiful Prospect, Is, As It Were, The Skirts Of The (angel's) Garments, The Waving Robes Of Those Whose Faces See God.

It's Really Not A Difficult Decision When You Reflect On It, ... The Situation Is Just So Tenuous With Where It's Going To Hit. You Don't Want To Take Any Chances.

There Is A Knowledge Which Is Desirable, Though Nothing Come Of It, As Being Of Itself A Treasure, And A Sufficient Remuneration Of Years Of Labor.

After The Fever Of Life--after Wearinesses, Sicknesses, Fightings And Despondings, Languor And Fretfulness, Struggling And Failing, Struggling And Succeeding--after All The Changes And Chances Of This Troubled And Unhealthy State, At Length Comes Death--at Length The White Throne Of God--at Length The Beatific Vision.

How Many Writers Are There... Who, Breaking Up Their Subject Into Details, Destroy Its Life, And Defraud Us Of The Whole By Their Anxiety About The Parts.