I Look Through The Grave Into Heaven.

The Duty Of Labor Is Written On A Man's Body: In The Stout Muscle Of The Arm,, And The Delicate Machinery Of The Hand.

Gratitude Is A Nice Touch Of Beauty Added Last Of All To The Countenance. Giving A Classic Beauty, An Angelic Loveliness, To The Character.

It Seems Strange That A Butterfly's Wing Should Be Woven Up So Thin And Gauzy In The Monstrous Loom Of Nature, And Be So Delicately Tipped With Fire From Such A Gross Hand, And Rainbowed All Over In Such A Storm Of Thunderous Elements. The Marvel Is That Such Great Forces Do Such Nice Work.

Nature Is God's Old Testament.

The Miser, Poor Fool, Not Only Starves His Body, But Also His Own Soul.