A Man Never Sees All That His

How Is It The Great Pieces Of Good Luck Fall To Us?

Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom, The Bobolinks Are Singing; Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom The Apple-tree Whispers To The Room, "why Art Thou But A Nest Of Gloom While The Bobolinks Are Singing?

Each One Of Us Must Suffer Long To Himself Before He Can Learn That He Is But One In A Great Community Of Wretchedness Which Has Been Pitilessly Repeating Itself From The Foundation Of The World.

The Difficulty Is To Know Conscience From Self-interest.

He Who Sleeps In Continual Noise Is Wakened By Silence.