Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

And When She Was Good She Was Very Very Good. But When She Was Bad She Was Horrid.

Three Silences There Are: The First Of Speech, The Second Of Desire, The Third Of Thought.

A Torn Jacket Is Soon Mended; But Hard Words Bruise The Heart Of A Child.

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.