I was almost persuaded to be a Christian. I thought I never again could be thoughtless and worldly. But I soon forgot my morning prayer or else it was irksome to me. One by one my old habits returned and I cared less for religion than ever.
The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.
At least to pray is left - is left Oh Jesus - in the Air - I know not which thy chamber is - I'm knocking everywhere.
Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
They address an Eclipse every morning, whom they call their "Father."
Vinnie rocks her Garden and moans that God won't help her. I suppose he is too busy getting angry with the Wicked every day.
Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?
When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth "for His mercy endureth forever," with confiding revulsion.
I do not feel I could give up all for Christ, were I called to die.
Within thy Grave! Oh no, but on some other flight - Thou only camest to mankind To rend it with Good night
The Truth never flaunted a sign.
I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
Those who lift their hats shall see Nature as devout do God.
You are out of the way of temptation and out of the way of the tempter - I didn't mean to make you wicked - but I was - and am - and shall be - and I was with you so much that I couldn't help contaminate.
When he tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is acquainted with grief, we listen, for that also is an acquaintance of our own.
If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
What shall we do my darling, when trial grows more, and more, when the dim, lone light expires, and it's dark, so very dark, and we wander, and know not where, and cannot get out of the forest - whose is the hand to help us, and to lead, and forever guide us? ... Where do you think I've strayed and from what new errand returned. I have come from to and fro, and walking up and down the same place that Satan hailed from when God asked where he'd been.
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?
That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.
You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
I cannot help esteem The 'Bird within the Hand' Superior to the one The 'Bush' may yield me Or may not Too late to choose again
Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.
God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
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