The Senses Interfere Everywhere, And Mix Their

Nor Count Compartments Of The Floors, But Mount To Paradise By The Stairway Of Surprise.

Prayer That Craves A Particular Commodity—anything Less Than All Good, Is Vicious. Prayer Is The Contemplation Of The Facts Of Life From The Highest Point Of View. It Is The Soliloquy Of A Beholding And Jubilant Soul. It Is The Spirit Of God Pronouncing His Works Good. But Prayer As A Means To Effect A Private End Is Theft And Meanness. It Supposes Dualism And Not Unity In Nature And Consciousness. As Soon As The Man Is At One With God, He Will Not Beg.

All Persons Are Puzzles Until At Last We Find In Some Word Or Act The Key To The Man, To The Woman; Straightway All Their Past Words And Actions Lie In Light Before Us.

I Am The Lover Of Uncontained And Immortal Beauty. In The Wilderness, I Find Something More Dear And Connate Than In Streets Or Villages. In The Tranquil Landscape, And Especially In The Distant Line Of The Horizon, Man Beholds Somewhat As Beautiful As His Own Nature.

Life Has No Memory. That Which Proceeds In Succession Might Be Remembered, But That Which Is Coexistent, Or Ejaculated From A Deeper Cause, As Yet Far From Being Conscious, Knows Not Its Own Tendency.