In The Mouths Of Many Men Soft

If You Would Hit The Mark, You Must Aim A Little Above It.

Alas! It Is Not Till Time, With Reckless Hand, Has Torn Out Half The Leaves From The Book Of Human Life To Light The Fires Of Passion With From Day To Day, That Man Begins To See That The Leaves Which Remain Are Few In Number.

Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point The Rods Of Fortune-tellers; Youth Perpetual Dwells In Fountains, Not In Flasks, And Casks, And Cellars.

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

A Sermon Is No Sermon In Which I Cannot Hear The Heartbeat.