Standing, With Reluctant Feet, Where The Brook

Be Noble In Every Thought And In Every Deed!

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

A Life That Is Worth Writing At All Is Worth Writing Minutely.

Doubtless Criticism Was Originally Benignant, Pointing Out The Beauties Of A Work Rather That Its Defects. The Passions Of Men Have Made It Malignant, As A Bad Heart Of Procreates Turned The Bed, The Symbol Of Repose, Into An Instrument Of Torture.

The Young May Die, But The Old Must!