Joy Comes, Grief Goes, We Know Not

What Visionary Tints The Year Puts On, When Falling Leaves Falter Through Motionless Air Or Numbly Cling And Shiver To Be Gone! How Shimmer The Low Flats And Pastures Bare, As With Her Nectar Hebe Autumn Fills The Bowl Between Me And Those Distant Hills, And Smiles And Shakes Abroad Her Misty, Tremulous Hair!

True Scholarship Consists In Knowing Not What Things Exist, But What They Mean; It Is Not Memory But Judgment.

He Gives Only The Worthless Gold Who Gives From A Sense Of Duty.

Incredulity Robs Us Of Many Pleasures, And Gives Us Nothing In Return.

The Idol Is The Measure Of The Worshipper.