My Altars Are The Mountains And The

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

Mark! Where His Carnage And His Conquests Cease, He Makes A Solitude And Calls It-peace!

Her Great Merit Is Finding Out Mine; There Is Nothing So Amiable As Discernment.

I Am So Convinced Of The Advantages Of Looking At Mankind Instead Of Reading About Them, . . . That I Think There Should Be A Law Amongst Us To Set Our Young Men Abroad For A Term Among The Few Allies Our Wars Have Left Us.