Believe that those who are gone are nearer us than ever; and that if (as I surely believe) they do sorrow over the mishaps and misdeeds of those whom they leave behind, they do not sorrow in vain. Their sympathy is a further education for them, and a pledge, too, of help—I believe of final deliverance—for those on whom they look down in love.
Letters and Memories. 1852.
Nature’s Parable. November 2.
There is a devil’s meaning to everything in nature, and a God’s meaning too. As I read nature’s parable to-night I find nothing in it but hope. What if there be darkness, the sun will rise to-morrow; what if there seem chaos, the great organic world is still living and growing and feeding, unseen by us all the night through; and every phosphoric atom there below is a sign that in the darkest night there is still the power of light, ready to flash out wherever and however it is stirred.
Prose Idylls. 1849.
Passing Onward. November 3.
Liturgies are but temporary expressions of the Church’s heart. The Bible is the immutable story of her husband’s love. She must go on from grace to grace, and her song must vary from age to age, and her ancient melodies become unfitted to express her feelings; but He is the same for ever.
MS. 1842.
See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,
Down the wild swirls of the dark-brimming stream;
So fleet the works of men back to their earth again—
Ancient and holy things pass like a dream.
A Parable. 1848.