That which we look on with unselfish love And true humility is surely ours, Even as a lake looks at the stars above And makes within itself a heaven of stars.
Lord, for the erring thought Not into evil wrought: Lord, for the wicked will Betrayed and baffled still: For the heart from itself kept, Our thanksgiving accept.
Whatever an author puts between the two covers of his book is public property; whatever of himself he does not put there is his private property, as much as if he had never written a word.