Poetry Is The Breath Of Beauty.

Nature, At All Events, Humanly Speaking, Is Manifestly Very Fond Of Color; For She Has Made Nothing Without It. Her Skies Are Blue; Her Fields, Green; Her Waters Vary With Her Skies; Her Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Are All Colored. She Paints A Great Any Of Them In Apparently Superfluous Hues, As If To Show The Dullest Eye How She Loves Color.

For The Qualities Of Sheer Wit And Humor, Swift Had No Superior, Ancient Or Modern.

Part Of Our Good Consists In The Endeavor To Do Sorrows Away, And In The Power To Sustain Them When The Endeavor Fails,--to Bear Them Nobly, And Thus Help Others To Bear Them As Well.

Affection, Like Melancholy, Magnifies Trifles; But The Magnifying Of The One Is Like Looking Through A Telescope At Heavenly Objects; That Of The Other, Like Enlarging Monsters With A Microscope.

The Loveliest Hair Is Nothing, If The Wearer Is Incapable Of A Grace.