My love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
My love is like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

How fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry.

Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love.
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

My heart craves to praise Thee,
But I am unable.
Would my understanding
Were as spacious as Solomon’s.
Without it my wisdom
As yet ill suffices
For expounding Thy wonders
And Thy deeds of beneficence
Wrought for me and all mankind.
Without Thee all’s hopeless,
And where is the rock
Sustaining, suspending
The weight of the world?
I am as one orphaned;
Nay, on Thee I am cast.
What then can I do
But look to Thee, wait on Thee,
In whose hand is the spirit
Of all that is living,
In whose hand is the breath
Of all the creation?

To Thee, O living God, my being yearns,
For Thee my soul consumes, my spirit burns.

Within Thy chosen people’s hearts Thy glory
Inhabits, be they babes or fathers hoary,

To bind Thy chosen to Thy chariot wheels.
And with the radiance that Thee conceals

I fill my heart and make for my delight
A lampstand set beside me in the night.

The wisest weary them to comprehend
Thy mystery, then how should I ascend

The secret of Thy glorious shrine to tell?
Thy shining semblance is unsearchable.

Then let my craving to my own soul turn
To find the wealth divine for which I yearn.

For Wisdom’s house is as of sapphires builded,
Her pavement as with gold of Ophir gilded.

Within the body is her hidden lair,
Like a young lion she is couchant there.

She is my bliss and joy in lamentation,
She is my thinking cap of meditation.

What man dare all her beauty’s praises sum,
Or be to her perfections wholly dumb?

Answer her swiftly, God of grace above,
For she is sick with longing for Thy love.

"Gently, dear damsel, sip salvation’s water,
For thou, most dazzling maiden, art My daughter."

The old cathedrals are good, but the great blue dome that hangs over everything is better.

It will not do to trust to long life.

It could be said that a liberal education has the nature of a bequest, in that it looks upon the student as the potential heir of a cultural birthright, whereas a practical education has the nature of a commodity to be exchanged for position, status, wealth, etc., in the future. A liberal education rests on the assumption that nature and human nature do not change very much or very fast and that one therefore needs to understand the past. The practical educators assume that human society itself is the only significant context, that change is therefore fundamental, constant, and necessary, that the future will be wholly unlike the past, that the past is outmoded, irrelevant, and an encumbrance upon the future -- the present being only a time for dividing past from future, for getting ready. But these definitions, based on division and opposition, are too simple. It is easy, accepting the viewpoint of either side, to find fault with the other. But the wrong is on neither side; it is in their division... Without the balance of historic value, practical education gives us that most absurd of standards: relevance, based upon the suppositional needs of a theoretical future. But liberal education, divorced from practicality, gives something no less absurd: the specialist professor of one or another of the liberal arts, the custodian of an inheritance he has learned much about, but nothing from.

One is always at home in one's past.

What is this jest in majesty? This ass in passion? How do God and Devil combine to form a live dog?

As the health and strength or weakness of our bodies is very much owing to their methods of treating us when we were young, so the soundness or folly of our minds is not less owing to those first tempers and ways of thinking which we eagerly received from the love, tenderness, authority, and constant conversation of our mothers.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, how shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you from seasons such as these? O! I have ta'en too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, that thou mayst shake the superflux to them, and show the heavens more just. King Lear, Act iii, Scene 4-5

Painting is nature seen through a temperament.

Then, as horizons step, or noons report away, without the formula of sound, it passes, and we stay: a quality of loss affecting our content.