Before A Day Was Over, Home Comes

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

If Any Foes Of Mine Are There, I Pardon Every One: I Hope That Man And Womankind Will Do The Same By Me.

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventful—then, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

I Have Been An "official" All My Life, Without The Least Turn For It. I Never Could Attain A True Official Manner, Which Is Highly Artificial And Handles Trifles With Ludicrously Disproportionate Gravity.

Autumn's The Mellow Time.