I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
Oh, grown-ups cannot understand, And grown-ups never will, How short the way to fairyland Across the purple hill.
The story of scientific discovery has its own epic unity-a unity of purpose and endeavour-the single torch passing from hand to hand through the centuries; and the great moments of science when, after long labour, the pioneers saw their accumulated facts falling into a significant order-sometimes in the form of a law that revolutionised the whole world of thought-have an intense human interest, and belong essentially to the creative imagination of poetry.
Only in souls the Christ is brought to birth, And there He lives and dies.
At a certain stage in his evolution, man himself had been able to lay hold upon a higher order of things, which raised him above the level of the beasts that perish, and enabled him to see, at least in the distance, the shining towers of the City of God.
Oh, grown-ups cannot understand, And grown-ups never will, How short the way to fairyland Across the purple hill.
There’s a magic in the distance, where the sea-line meets the sky.
The universe is neither centered on earth nor the sun. It is centered on God.
Happy, happy, happy for all that God hath done, Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun.
...love lies hidden in every rose...
Your dreamers may dream it The shadow of a dream, Your sages may deem it A bubble on the stream; Yet our kingdom draweth nigher With each dawn and every day, Through the earthquake and the fire Love will find out the way.
Enough of dreams! No longer mock The burdened hearts of men! Not on the cloud, but on the rock Build thou thy faith again; O range no more the realms of air, Stoop to the glen-bound streams; Thy hope was all too like despair: Enough, enough of dreams.
Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies, And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.
Of the sayings of Christ in the Synoptic Gospels that can be compared to those in the fourth Gospel, there are one or two which I venture to think can only have been recorded on the authority of St. John.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
