I Think Hearts Are Very Much Like

We Are Rarely Wrong When We Act From Impulse.

I Do Love Violets; They Tell The History Of Woman's Love.

Doubts, Like Facts, Are Stubborn Things.

Conscience, Like A Child, Is Soon Lulled To Sleep.

How Beautiful, Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning! The First Sunshine On The Leaves: The First Wind, Laden With The First Breath Of The Flowers—that Deep Sigh With Which They Seem To Waken From Sleep; The First Dew, Untouched Even By The Light Foot Of The Early Hare; The First Chirping Of The Rousing Birds, As If Eager To Begin Song And Flight; All Is Redolent Of The Strength Given By Rest, And The Joy Of Conscious Life.