Every Friend Is To The Other A

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than Cheerfulness In An Old Face.

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.

Every Man Regards His Own Life As The New Year's Eve Of Time.

God Is An Unutterable Sigh, Planted In The Depths Of The Soul.