Books Succeed; And Lives Fail.

He Lives Most Life Whoever Breathes Most Air.

When The Dust Of Death Has Choked A Great Man's Voice, The Common Words He Said Turn Oracles, The Common Thoughts He Yoked Like Horses Draw Like Griffins.

O Pusillanimous Heart, Be Comforted And, Like A Cheerful Traveller, Take The Road Singing Beside The Hedge.

First Time He Kissed Me, He But Only Kissed The Fingers Of This Hand Wherewith I Write; And, Ever Since, It Grew More Clean And White.

I Begin To Think That None Are So Bold As The Timid, When They Are Fairly Roused.