Music Tells No Truths.

And These Are Joys, Like Beauty, But Skin Deep.

Life Is As Serious A Thing As Death.

The Sun, Centre And Sire Of Light, The Keystone Of The World-built Arch Of Heaven.

Dewdrops, Nature's Tears, Which She Sheds In Her Own Breast For The Fair Which Die. The Sun Insists On Gladness; But At Night, When He Is Gone, Poor Nature Loves To Weep.

Worthy Books Are Not Companions – They Are Solitudes: We Lose Ourselves In Them And All Our Cares.