Behind The Dim Unknown, Standeth God With

These Pearls Of Thought In Persian Gulfs Were Bred, Each Softly Lucent As A Rounded Moon; The Diver Omar Plucked Them From Their Bed, Fitzgerald Strung Them On An English Thread.

Not What We Give, But What We Share, For The Gift Without The Giver Is Bare.

We Cannot But Think There Is Something Like A Fallacy In Mr. Buckle's Theory That The Advance Of Mankind Is Necessarily In The Direction Of Science, And Not In That Of Morals.

It May Be Glorious To Write Thoughts That Shall Glad The Two Or Three High Souls, Like Those Far Stars That Come In Sight Once In A Century.

Democracy Gives Every Man The Right To Be His Own Oppressor.