Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing

Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

Day, Like A Weary Pilgrim, Had Reached The Western Gate Of Heaven, And Evening Stooped Down To Unloose The Latchets Of His Sandal Shoon.

A Single Conversation Across The Table With A Wise Man Is Better Than Ten Years Mere Study Of Books.

The Soul...is Audible, Not Visible.

The Helicon Of Too Many Poets Is Not A Hill Crowned With Sunshine And Visited By The Muses And The Graces, But An Old, Mouldering House, Full Of Gloom And Haunted By Ghosts.