Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventful—then, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summer-time!

O Spirit Of The Summertime! Bring Back The Roses To The Dells; The Swallow From Her Distant Clime, The Honey-bee From Drowsy Cells. Bring Back The Friendship Of The Sun; The Gilded Evenings, Calm And Late, When Merry Children Homeward Run, And Peeping Stars Bid Lovers Wait. Bring Back The Singing; And The Scent Of Meadowlands At Dewy Prime;- Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summertime!

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?