Rough Johnson, The Great Moralist.

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

And Dreams In Their Development Have Breath, And Tears, And Tortures, And The Touch Of Joy; They Have A Weight Upon Our Waking Thoughts, They Take A Weight From Off Our Waking Toils, They Do Divide Our Being.

The Stars Are Forth, The Moon Above The Tops Of The Snow-shining Mountains--beautiful! I Linger Yet With Nature, For The Night Hath Been To Me A More Familiar Face Than That Of Man, And In Her Starry Shade Of Dim And Solitary Loveliness I Learned The Language Of Another World.

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.

In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought Is Capable Of Years; And Curdles A Long Life Into One Hour.