Death Is Another Life.

Blessings Star Forth Forever; But A Curse Is Like A Cloud, It Passes.

Any Heart Turned Godward Feels More Joyin One Short Hour Of Prayer, Than E'er Was Raisedby All The Feasts Of Earth Since Its Foundation.

Death, Thou Art Infinite; It Is Life Is Little.

For As Nightingales Do Upon Glow-worms Feed, So Poets Live Upon The Living Light.

Could We But Think With The Intensity We Love With, We Might Do Great Things.