Gray Hairs Seem To My Fancy Like

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

A Variety Of Nothing Is Superior To A Monotony Of Something.

Music Is Moonlight In The Gloomy Night Of Life.

Two Aged Men, That Had Been Foes For Life, Met By A Grave, And Wept - And In Those Tears They Washed Away The Memory Of Their Strife; Then Wept Again The Loss Of All Those Years.

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.