Happy Is The House That Shelters A

The Word Unto The Prophet Spoken Was Writ On Tablets Yet Unbroken: The Word By Seers Or Sibyls Told, In Groves Of Oak Or Fanes Of Gold, Still Floats Upon The Morning Wind, Still Whispers To The Willing Mind.

The Civilized Man Has Built A Coach, But Has Lost The Use Of His Feet.

Happy The Man Who Never Puts On A Face, But Receives Every Visitor With That Countenance He Has On.

But A Compassion For That Which Is Not And Cannot Be Useful And Lovely, Is Degrading And Futile.

A Good Intention But Fixed And Resolute - Bent On High And Holy Ends, We Shall Find Means To Them On Every Side And At Every Moment; And Even Obstacles And Opposition Will But Make Us "like The Fabled Specter-ships," Which Sail The Fastest In The Very Teeth Of The Wind.