Every Word Was Once A Poem. Every

Too Busy With The Crowded Hour To Fear To Live Or Die.

Society Gains Nothing Whilst A Man, Not Himself Renovated, Attempts To Renovate Things Around Him; He Has Become Tediously Good Insome Particular But Negligent Or Narrow In The Rest; And Hypocrisy And Vanity Are Often The Disgusting Result.

Shall We Then Judge A Country By The Majority, Or By The Minority? By The Minority, Surely.

It Is In Rugged Crises, In Unbearable Endurance, And In Aims Which Put Sympathy Out Of The Question, That The Angel Is Shown.

The Only Gift Is A Portion Of Thyself . . . The Poet Brings His Poem; The Shepherd His Lamb. . . .