Few Save The Poor Feel For The

Are We Not Like The Actor Of Old Times, Who Wore His Mask So Long His Face Took Its Likeness?

The Dream On The Pillow, That Flits With The Day, The Leaf Of The Willow A Breath Wears Away; The Dust On The Blossom, The Spray On The Sea; Ay,--ask Thine Own Bosom-- Are Emblems Of Thee.

It Is Strange What Society Will Endure From Its Idols.

Toil Is The Portion Of Day, As Sleep Is That Of Night; But If There Be One Hour Of The Twenty-four Which Has The Life Of Day Without Its Labor, And The Rest Of Night Without Its Slumber, It Is The Lovely And Languid Hour Of Twilight.

Doubts, Like Facts, Are Stubborn Things.