Farewell's A Bitter Word To Say.

Habit Is Our Idea Of Eternity.

There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.

I Will Look On The Stars And Look On Thee, And Read The Page Of Thy Destiny.

A Sealed Book, At Whose Contents We Tremble.

How Beautiful, Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning! The First Sunshine On The Leaves: The First Wind, Laden With The First Breath Of The Flowers—that Deep Sigh With Which They Seem To Waken From Sleep; The First Dew, Untouched Even By The Light Foot Of The Early Hare; The First Chirping Of The Rousing Birds, As If Eager To Begin Song And Flight; All Is Redolent Of The Strength Given By Rest, And The Joy Of Conscious Life.