A candle brightens the world around it. Unfortunately, it creates a shadow of its own. It still serves the purpose it is meant for.

Commemoration of William Wilberforce, Social Reformer, 1833 We know that one school of psychology already regards religion as a neurosis. When this particular neurosis becomes inconvenient to the government, what is to hinder the government from proceeding to 'cure' It? Such 'cure' will , of course, be compulsory; but under the humanitarian theory it will not be called by the shocking name of Persecution. No one will blame us for being Christians, no one will hate us, no one revile us. The new Nero will approach us with the silky manners of a doctor, and though all will be in fact {compulsory}, all will go on within the unemotional therapeutic sphere where words like 'right' and 'wrong' , or 'freedom' and 'slavery' are never heard. And thus when the command is given, every prominent Christian in the land may vanish overnight into Institutions for the Treatment of the Ideologically Unsound, and it will rest with the expert gaolers to when (if ever) they are to emerge. But it will not be persecution. Even if the treatment is painful, even if it is life-long, even if if it is fatal, that will be only a regrettable accident, the intention was purely therapeutic.

It is not our circumstances that create our discontent or contentment. It is us.

And many an ante-natal tomb When butterflies dream of the life to come.

A man who suffers before it is necessary, suffers more than is necessary.

A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.

Why, 'a stalks up and down like a peacock--a stride and a stand; ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning; bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say, 'There were wit in this head an 'twould out'; and so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking.

Let the motive be in the deed and not in the event. Be not one whose motive for action is the hope of reward.

Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.

Feast of Philip & James, Apostles I come in the little things, Saith the Lord: Not borne on morning wings Of majesty, but I have set My Feet Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod. There do I dwell, in weakness and in power; Not broken or divided, saith our God! In your strait garden plot I come to flowers About your porch My Vine, Meek, fruitful, doth entwine; Waits, at the threshold, Love's appointed hour. I come in the little things, Saith the Lord: Yea! on the glancing wings Of eager birds, the softly pattering feet Of furred and gentle beasts, I come to meet Your hear and wayward heart. In brown bright eyes That peep from out the brake, I stand confest. On every nest Where feathery Patience is content to brood And leaves her pleasure for the high emprize Of motherhood -- There doth My Godhead rest. I come in the little things, Saith the Lord: My starry wings I do forsake, Love's highway of humility to take: Meekly I fit my stature to your need. In beggar's part About your gates I shall not cease to plead -- As man, to speak with man -- Till by such art I shall achieve My Immemorial Plan, Pass the low lintel of the human heart.

Art, like morality, consists in drawing the line somewhere.

And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth; Four things greater than all things are-- Women and Horses and Power and War.

Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?

Where things have not changed at all, there is the least likelihood of revolution.

Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

They amuse themselves sadly as in the custom of their country.

One half of the world will never understand the other half, and it doesn't matter which half you're in.

O'er folded blooms On swirls of musk, The beetle booms adown the glooms And bumps along the dusk.

I love night more than day--she is so lovely; But I love night the most because she brings My love to me in dreams which scarcely lie.

Baseball is a lot like life. The line drives are caught, the squibbles go for base hits. It's an unfair game.