So Dear Night The Half Of Life

Whatever Nature Undertakes, She Can Only Accomplish It In A Sequence. She Never Makes A Leap.

Rash Combat Oft Immortalizes Man; If He Should Fall, He Is Renowned In Song; But After-ages Reckon Not The Ceaseless Tears Which The Forsaken Woman Sheds. Poets Tell Us Not Of The Many Nights Consumed In Weeping, Or Of The Dreary Days Wherein Her Anguished Soul Vainly Yearns To Call Her Loved One Back.

At The End Of Life Thoughts Hitherto Impossible Come To The Collected Mind, Like Good Spirits Which Let Themselves Down From The Shining Heights Of The Past.

The World Only Goes Forward Because Of Those Who Oppose It.

He Who Can Not Learn To Love Must Flatter.