Habit Is A Second Nature, And What

The Dream On The Pillow, That Flits With The Day, The Leaf Of The Willow A Breath Wears Away; The Dust On The Blossom, The Spray On The Sea; Ay,--ask Thine Own Bosom-- Are Emblems Of Thee.

I Can Pass Days Stretch'd In The Shade Of Those Old Cedar Trees, Watching The Sunshine Like A Blessing Fall,-- The Breeze Like Music Wandering O'er The Boughs, Each Tree A Natural Harp,--each Different Leaf A Different Note, Blent In One Vast Thanksgiving.

It Is A Curious Fact, But One Which All Experience Owns, That People Do Not Desire So Much To Appear Better, As To Appear Different From What They Really Are.

I Do Not Think That Life Has A Suspense More Sickening Than That Of Expecting A Letter Which Does Not Come.

Habit Is A Second Nature, And What Was At First Pleasure, Is Next Necessity.