Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

The Globe Has Been Circumnavigated, But No Man Ever Yet Has; You May Survey A Kingdom And Note The Result In Maps, But All The Savants In The World Could Not Produce A Reliable Map Of The Poorest Human Personality.

There Is A Certain Even-handed Justice In Time; And For What He Takes Away He Gives Us Something In Return. He Robs Us Of Elasticity Of Limb And Spirit, And In Its Place He Brings Tranquility And Repose—the Mild Autumnal Weather Of The Soul.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

In My Garden I Spend My Days; In My Library I Spend My Nights.