Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust,

The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It. I Stand In Awe Of My Own Opinion. The Secret Demerits Of Which We Alone, Perhaps, Are Conscious, Are Often More Difficult To Bear Than Those Which Have Been Publicly Censured In Us, And Thus In Some Degree Atoned For.

My Designs And Labors And Aspirations Are My Only Friends.

By Unseen Hands Uplifted In The Light Of Sunset, Yonder Solitary Cloud Floats, With Its White Apparel Blown Abroad, And Wafted Up To Heaven.