Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat,

The Only Amaranthine Flower On Earth Is Virtue; The Only Lasting Treasure, Truth.

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds: And As The Mind Is Pitch'd The Ear Is Pleased With Melting Airs, Or Martial, Brisk Or Grave; Some Chord In Unison With What We Hear Is Touch'd Within Us, And The Heart Replies.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

Elegant As Simplicity, And Warm As Ecstasy.

Books Are Not Seldom Talismans And Spells.