Truth, For Its Own Sake,

A Blessed Thing It Is For Any Man Or Woman To Have A Friend, One Human Soul Whom We Can Trust Utterly, Who Knows The Best And Worst Of Us, And Who Loves Us In Spite Of All Our Faults.

See The Land, Her Easter Keeping, Rises As Her Maker Rose. Seeds, So Long In Darkness Sleeping, Burst At Last From Winter Snows. Earth With Heaven Above Rejoices.

Gradually The Sunken Land Begins To Rise Again, And Falls Perhaps Again, And Rises Again After That, More And More Gently Each Time, Till As It Were The Panting Earth, Worn Out With The Fierce Passions Of Her Fiery Youth, Has Sobbed Herself To Sleep Once More, And This New World Of Man Is Made.

There Is A Great Deal Of Human Nature In Man.

Grandeur . . . Consists In Form, And Not In Size: And To The Eye Of The Philosopher, The Curve Drawn On A Paper Two Inches Long, Is Just As Magnificent, Just As Symbolic Of Divine Mysteries And Melodies, As When Embodied In The Span Of Some Cathedral Roof.