Love Is Sunshine, Hate Is Shadow, Life

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

Some Feelings Are Quite Untranslatable; No Language Has Yet Been Found For Them. They Gleam Upon Us Beautifully Through The Dim Twilight Of Fancy, And Yet When We Bring Them Close To Us, And Hold Them Up To The Light Of Reason, Lose Their Beauty All At Once, As Glow Worms Which Gleam With Such A Spiritual Light In The Shadows Of Evening, When Brought In Where The Candles Are Lighted, Are Found To Be Only Worms Like So Many Others.

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

The Bravest Are The Tenderest.

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.