All, All Are Gone, The Old Familiar

The Teller Of A Mirthful Tale Has Latitude Allowed Him. We Are Content With Less Than Absolute Truth.

To Sigh, Yet Feel No Pain; To Weep, Yet Scarce Know Why; To Sport An Hour With Beauty's Chain, Then Throw It Idly By.

I Have Passed All My Days In London, Until I Have Formed As Many And Intense Local Attachments As Any Of You Mountaineers Can Have Done With Dead Nature.

We Are Nothing; Less Than Nothing, And Dreams. We Are Only What Might Have Been.

Philanthropy, Like Charity, Must Begin At Home.