That Gracious Thing, Made Up Of Tears

Humor Is Consistent With Pathos, Whilst Wit Is Not.

Day After Day, Day After Day, We Stuck, Nor Breath Nor Motion; As Idle As A Painted Ship Upon A Painted Ocean.

He Prayeth Best, Who Loveth Best All Things Both Great And Small; For The Dear God Who Loveth Us, He Made And Loveth All.

The Intelligible Forms Of Ancient Poets, The Fair Humanities Of Old Religion, The Power, The Beauty, And The Majesty That Had Their Haunts In Dale Or Piny Mountain, Or Forest By Slow Stream, Or Pebbly Spring, Or Chasms And Watery Depths, All These Have Vanished; They Live No Longer In The Faith Of Reason.

Until You Understand A Writer's Ignorance, Presume Yourself Ignorant Of His Understanding.