Gray Hairs Seem To My Fancy Like

Joys Are Our Wings, Sorrows Our Spurs.

The Burden Of Suffering Seems A Tombstone Hung About Our Necks, While In Reality It Is Only The Weight Which Is Necessary To Keep Down The Diver While He Is Hunting For Pearls.

A Loving Maiden Grows Unconsciously More Bold.

It Is Not Great, But Little Good-haps That Make Up Happiness.

How Narrow Our Souls Become When Absorbed In Any Present Good Or Ill! It Is Only The Thought Of The Future That Makes Them Great.