Poverty Is The Only Load Which Is

For No One Does Life Drag More Disagreeably Than For Those Who Try To Speed It Up.

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.

A Timid Person Is Frightened Before A Danger, A Coward During The Time, And A Courageous Person Afterward.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.