A Man Does Not Plant A Tree

Seated In My Library At Night, And Looking On The Silent Faces Of My Books, I Am Occasionally Visited By A Strange Sense Of The Supernatural.

Good-humor And, Generosity Carry Day With The Popular Heart All The World Over.

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

An Old Novel Has A History Of Its Own.

My Garden, With Its Silence And Pulses Of Fragrance That Come And Go On The Airy Undulations, Affects Me Like Sweet Music. Care Stops At The Gates, And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.