If Have Got My Spindle And My

A Man In Whom Religion Is An Inspiration, Who Has Surrendered His Being To Its Power, Who Drinks It, Breathes It, Bathes In It, Cannot Speak Otherwise Than Religiously.

What Is The Little One Thinking About? Very Wonderful Things, No Doubt; Unwritten History! Unfathomed Mystery! Yet He Laughs And Cries, And Eats And Drinks, And Chuckles And Crows, And Nods And Winks, As If His Head Were As Full Of Kinks And Curious Riddles As Any Sphinx!

Humanity Is Constitutionally Lazy.

Music Was A Thing Of The Soul — A Rose-lipped Shell That Murmured Of The Eternal Sea — A Strange Bird Singing The Songs Of Another Shore.

The Soul, Like The Body, Lives By What It Feeds On.