If We Tire Of The Saints, Shakspeare

Power Resides In The Moment Of Transition From A Past To A New State.

He Is Great Who Is What He Is From Nature, And Who Never Reminds Us Of Others.

The April Winds Are Magical, And Thrill Our Tuneful Frames; The Garden-walks Are Passional To Bachelors And Dames.

The Flowers Talk When The Wind Blows Over Them.

I Think No Virtue Goes With Size;the Reason Of All Cowardiceis, That Men Are Overgrown,and, To Be Valiant, Must Come Downto The Titmouse Dimension.