Burn, O Evening Hearth, And Waken Pleasant

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

In This World A Man Must Either Be Anvil Or Hammer.

Burn, O Evening Hearth, And Waken Pleasant Visions, As Of Old! Though The House By Winds Be Shaken, Safe I Keep This Room Of Gold!

To Be Infatuated With The Power Of One's Own Intellect Is An Accident Which Seldom Happens But To Those Who Are Remarkable For The Want Of Intellectual Power. Whenever Nature Leaves A Hole In A Person's Mind, She Generally Plasters It Over With A Thick Coat Of Self-conceit.

Hope Has As Many Lives As A Cat Or A King.