How In The Turmoil Of Life Can

God's Voice Was Not In The Earthquake, Not In The Fire, Nor The Storm, But It Was In The Whispering Breezes.

Every Author Has The Whole Past To Contend With; All The Centuries Are Upon Him. He Is Compared With Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

Happy Art Thou, As If Every Day Thou Hadst Picked Up A Horseshoe.

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

To Be Left Alone, And Face To Face With My Own Crime, Had Been Just Retribution.