Home Is The Sacred Refuge Of Our

All Flowers Will Droop In The Absence Of The Sun That Waked Their Sweets.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Virtue Without Success Is A Fair Picture Shown By An Ill Light; But Lucky Men Are Favorites Of Heaven; All Own The Chief, When Fortune Owns The Cause.

He Who Proposes To Be An Author Should First Be A Student.

All Habits Gather By Unseen Degrees.