Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

Mine Is The Month Of Roses; Yes, And Mine The Month Of Marriages! All Pleasant Sights And Scents, The Fragrance Of The Blossoming Vine, The Foliage Of The Valleys And The Heights. Mine Are The Longest Days, The Loveliest Nights; The Mower's Scythe Makes Music To My Ear; I Am The Mother Of All Dear Delights; I Am The Fairest Daughter Of The Year.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

In The World's Broad Field Of Battle, In The Bivouac Of Life, Be Not Like Dumb, Driven Cattle! Be A Hero In The Strife!

But Oftentimes Celestial Benedictions Assume This Dark Disguise.

Every Human Heart Is Human.