He That Respects Himself Is Safe From

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

The Sun Is Set; And In His Latest Beams Yon Little Cloud Of Ashen Gray And Gold, Slowly Upon The Amber Air Unrolled, The Falling Mantle Of The Prophet Seems.

A Solid Man Of Boston; A Comfortable Man With Dividends, And The First Salmon And The First Green Peas.