Winds Wanders, And Dews Drip Earthward; Rains

Like Streams That Keep A Summer Mind Snow-hid In Jenooary.

Sincerity Is Impossible, Unless It Pervade The Whole Being, And The Pretence Of It Saps The Very Foundation Of Character.

A Weed Is No More Than A Flower In Disguise.

It Is Curious How Tyrannical The Habit Of Reading Is, And What Shifts We Make To Escape Thinking. There Is No Bore We Dread Being Left Alone With So Much As Our Own Minds.

They Are Slaves Who Fear To Speak, For The Fallen And The Weak.