Bring In The Bottled Lightning, A Clean

How Could You Give Me Life, And Take From Me All The Inappreciable Things That Raise It From The State Of Conscious Death? Where Are The Graces Of My Soul? Where Are The Sentiments Of My Heart? What Have You Done, Oh, Father, What Have You Done With The Garden That Should Have Bloomed Once, In This Great Wilderness Here? Said Louisa As She Touched Her Heart.

There Are Hopes, The Bloom Of Whose Beauty Would Be Spoiled By The Trammels Of Description; Too Lovely, Too Delicate, Too Sacred For Words, They Should Only Be Known Through The Sympathy Of Hearts.

Are There No Prisons?

It Is A Pleasant Thing To Reflect Upon, And Furnishes A Complete Answer To Those Who Contend For The Gradual Degeneration Of The Human Species, That Every Baby Born Into The World Is A Finer One Than The Last.

Regrets Are The Natural Property Of Grey Hairs.