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Of the harvest year is over and done,

And the hoary snow-drift will soon be blowing

Under the wheels of the whirling Sun.

While tower and turret lie silver’d under,

When eyes are closed and lips are dumb,

In the nightly pause of the human wonder,

From dusky portals I see thee come;

And whoso wakes and beholds thee yonder,

Is witch’d like me till his days shall cease,—

For in his eyes, wheresoever he wander,

Flashes the vision of God’s white Peace.

R. Buchanan.

There is no short cut, no patent tramroad, to wisdom: after all the centuries of invention, the soul’s path lies through the thorny wilderness which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time.

George Eliot (The Lifted Veil).

Let us think less of men and more of God.

Sometimes the thought comes swiftening over us,

Like a small bird winging the still blue air;

And then again, at other times, it rises

Slow, like a cloud, which scales the skies all breathless,

And just overhead lets itself down on us,