The Dearest Events Are Summer-rain.

This Ennui, For Which We Saxons Had No Name,--this Word Of France, Has Got A Terrific Significance. It Shortens Life, And Bereaves The Day Of Its Light.

The Reason Why Men Do Not Obey Us, Is Because They See The Mud At The Bottom Of Our Eye.

Self Sacrifice Is The Real Miracle Out Of Which All The Reported Miracles Grow.

Do What We Can, Summer Will Have Its Flies.

Always The Seer Is A Sayer. Somehow His Dream Is Told; Somehow He Publishes It With Solemn Joy: Sometimes With Pencil On Canvas, Sometimes With Chisel On Stone, Sometimes In Towers And Aisles Of Granite, His Soul's Worship Is Builded; Sometimes In Anthems Of Indefinite Music, But Clearest And Most Permanent, In Words.