The Disease With Which The Human Mind

A Painter Told Me That Nobody Could Draw A Tree Without In Some Sort Becoming A Tree.

Of Lower States, Of Acts Of Routine And Sense, We Can Tell Somewhat; But The Masterpieces Of God, The Total Growths And Universalmovements Of The Soul, He Hideth; They Are Incalculable. I Can Know That Truth Is Divine And Helpful; But How It Shall Help Me I Can Have No Guess, For So To Be Is The Sole Inlet Of So To Know.

The Simplest Words,--we Do Not Know What They Mean Except When We Love And Aspire.

I Ought To Go Upright And Vital, And Speak The Rude Truth In All Ways.

The World Globes Itself In A Drop Of Dew.