A Man's Library Is A Sort Of

For Beauty Is God's Handwriting...a Nd, Thank God For It As A Cup Of His Blessing.

Whatever Limits Us We Call Fate.

Of All The Ways To Lose A Person, Death Is The Kindest

The Word Unto The Prophet Spoken Was Writ On Tablets Yet Unbroken: The Word By Seers Or Sibyls Told, In Groves Of Oak Or Fanes Of Gold, Still Floats Upon The Morning Wind, Still Whispers To The Willing Mind.

In The History Of The Individual Is Always An Account Of His Condition, And He Knows Himself To Be A Party To His Present Estate.