He Loves But Little Who Can Say

A Mighty Flame Followeth A Tiny Spark.

At Grief So Deep The Tongue Must Wag In Vain; The Language Of Our Sense And Memory Lacks The Vocabulary Of Such Pain.

Justice Does Not Descend From Its Own Pinnacle.

All Of Nature Is God's Art.

Imagination, That Dost So Abstract Us That We Are Not Aware, Not Even When A Thousand Trumpets Sound About Our Ears!