Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For

He Got Out Of Bed And Peeped Through The Blinds. To The East And Opposite To Him Gardens And An Apple-orchard Lay, And There In Strange Liquid Tranquility Hung The Morning Star, And Rose, Rilling Into The Dusk Of Night The First Grey Of Dawn. The Street Beneath Its Autumn Leaves Was Vacant, Charmed, Deserted.

An Hour's Terror Is Better Than A Lifetime Of Timidity.

Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone Is Another Summer's Day.

What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

The Only Catalogue Of This World's Goods That Really Counts Is That Which We Keep In The Silence Of The Mind.