God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

Truth Gets Well If She Is Run Over By A Locomotive, While Error Dies Of Lockjaw If She Scratches Her Finger.

Tender Pauses Speak The Overflow Of Gladness, When Words Are All Too Weak.

All Great Poets Have Been Men Of Great Knowledge.