Seated In My Library At Night, And

Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature Has To Hide, And She Hides It Well.

There Is A Certain Even-handed Justice In Time; And For What He Takes Away He Gives Us Something In Return. He Robs Us Of Elasticity Of Limb And Spirit, And In Its Place He Brings Tranquility And Repose—the Mild Autumnal Weather Of The Soul.

The Greatness Of An Artist Or A Writer Does Not Depend On What He Has In Common With Other Artists And Writers, But On What He Has Peculiar To Himself.

Every Man's Road In Life Is Marked By The Grave Of His Personal Likings.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.