Evil Then Results From Imperfection.

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.

When Night Hath Set Her Silver Lamp High, Then Is The Time For Study.

Let Us Think Less Of Men And More Of God.

Dear Lord, Our God And Saviour! For Thy Gifts The World Were Poor In Thanks, Though Every Soul Were To Do Nought But Breathe Them, Every Blade Of Grass, And Every Atomie Of Earth To Utter It Like Dew.

As The Master So The Valet.