To Know Is Not Less Than To

We Expect More Of Ourselves Than We Have Any Right To.

The Wind Blows Out, The Bubble Dies; The Spring Entomb'd In Autumn Lies; The Dew Dries Up; The Star Is Shot; The Flight Is Past, And Man Forgot.

There Is One Gratification An Old Author Can Afford A Certain Class Of Critics; That Namely, Of Comparing Him As He Is With What He Was. It Is A Pleasure To Mediocrity To Have Its Superiors Brought Within Range.

To Us Who Remain Behind Is Left This Day Of Memories. Every Year--in The Full Tide Of Spring, At The Height Of The Symphony Of Flowers And Love And Life--there Comes A Pause, And Through The Silence We Hear The Lonely Pipe Of Death.

The Man Of Action Has The Present, But The Thinker Controls The Future.