The Manner In Which The Hours Of

When We Lose One We Love, Our Bitterest Tears Are Called Forth By The Memory Of Hours When We Loved Not Enough.

No Living Creature, Not Even Man, Has Achieved, In The Centre Of His Sphere, What The Bee Has Achieved In Her Own: And Were Some One From Another World To Descend And Ask Of The Earth The Most Perfect Creation Of The Logic Of Life, We Should Needs Have To Offer The Humble Comb Of Honey.

Is Not Every Action Of Hamlet Induced By A Fanatical Impulse, Which Tells Him That Duty Consists In Revenge Alone? And Dose It Need Superhuman Efforts To Recognize That Revenge Never Can Be Duty? I Say Again That Hamlet Thinks Much, But That He Is By No Means Wise.

The Thoughts You Think Will Irradiate You As Though You Are A Transparent Vase.

The Souls Of All Our Brethren Are Ever Hovering About Us, Craving For A Caress, And Only Waiting For The Signal.