A Sealed Book, At Whose Contents We

The Wind Has A Language, I Would I Could Learn! Sometimes 'tis Soothing, And Sometimes 'tis Stern, Sometimes It Comes Like A Low Sweet Song, And All Things Grow Calm, As The Sound Floats Along, And The Forest Is Lull'd By The Dreamy Strain, And Slumber Sinks Down On The Wandering Main, And Its Crystal Arms Are Folded In Rest, And The Tall Ship Sleeps On Its Heaving Breast.

It Is Said That Ridicule Is The Test Of Truth: It Is Never Applied, But When We Wish To Deceive Ourselves.

Toil Is The Portion Of Day, As Sleep Is That Of Night; But If There Be One Hour Of The Twenty-four Which Has The Life Of Day Without Its Labor, And The Rest Of Night Without Its Slumber, It Is The Lovely And Languid Hour Of Twilight.

He Who Seeks Pleasure With Reference To Himself, Not Others, Will Ever Find That Pleasure Is Only Another Name For Discontent.

Doubts, Like Facts, Are Stubborn Things.