No Temple Can Still The Personal Griefs

But The Golden-rod Is One Of The Fairy, Magical Flowers; It Grows Not Up To Seek Human Love Amid The Light Of Day, But To Mark To The Discerning What Wealth Lies Hid In The Secret Caves Of Earth.

The Critic Is Beneath The Maker, But Is His Needed Friend. The Critic Is Not A Base Caviler, But The Younger Brother Of Genius. Next To Invention Is The Power Of Interpreting Invention; Next To Beauty The Power Of Appreciating Beauty. And Of Making Others Appreciate It.

Would That The Simple Maxim, That Honesty Is The Best Policy, Might Be Laid To Heart; That A Sense Of The True Aim Of Life Might Elevate The Tone Of Politics And Trade Till Public And Private Honor Become Identical.

Let No One Dare To Call Another Mad Who Is Not Himself Willing To Rank In The Same Class For Every Perversion And Fault Of Judgment. Let No One Dare Aid In Punishing Another As Criminal Who Is Not Willing To Suffer The Penalty Due To His Own Offenses.

The Persons Whom You Have Idolized Can Never, In The End, Be Ungrateful, And, Probably, At The Time Of Retreat They Still Do Justice To Your Heart. But, So Long As You Must Draw Persons Too Near You, A Temporary Recoil Is Sure To Follow. It Is The Character Striving To Defend Itself From A Heating And Suffocating Action Upon It.