There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

Races, Better Than We, Have Leaned On Her Wavering Promise, Having Naught Else But Hope.

He Spoke Well Who Said That Graves Are The Footprints Of Angels.

Each New Epoch In Life Seems An Encounter. There Is A Tussle And A Cloud Of Dust, And We Come Out Of It Triumphant Or Crest-fallen, According As We Have Borne Ourselves.

And So We Plough Along, As The Fly Said To The Ox.

And When The Echoes Had Ceased, Like A Sense Of Pain Was The Silence.