The Past Is Perpetual Youth To The

If There Be Any One Habit Which More Than Another Is The Dry Rot Of All That Is High And Generous In Youth, It Is The Habit Of Ridicule.

The Dream On The Pillow, That Flits With The Day, The Leaf Of The Willow A Breath Wears Away; The Dust On The Blossom, The Spray On The Sea; Ay,--ask Thine Own Bosom-- Are Emblems Of Thee.

In Sad Truth, Half Our Forebodings Of Our Neighbors Are But Our Own Wishes, Which We Are Ashamed To Utter In Any Other Form.

We Are Ourselves The Stumbling-blocks In The Way Of Our Happiness. Place A Common Individual - By Common, I Mean With The Common Share Of Stupidity, Custom, And Discontent - Place Him In The Garden Of Eden, And He Would Not Find It Out Unless He Were Told, And When Told, He Would Not Believe It.

Few Save The Poor Feel For The Poor.