A Torn Jacket Is Soon Mended; But

O, Though Oft Oppressed And Lonely, All My Fears Are Laid Aside, If I But Remember Only Such As These Have Lived And Died!

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

The Grave Itself Is But A Covered Bridge, Leading From Light To Light, Through A Brief Darkness!

There Is No Death! What Seems So Is Transition; This Life Of Mortal Breath Is But A Suburb Of The Life Elysian, Whose Portal We Call Death.

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.