In My Garden I Spend My Days;

One Never Hugs One's Good Luck So Affectionately As When Listening To The Relation Of Some Horrible Misfortunes Which Has Overtaken Others.

There Is No Ghost So Difficult To Lay As The Ghost Of An Injury.

Yet Through All, We Know This Tangled Skein Is In The Hands Of One, Who Sees The End From The Beginning: He Shall Unravel All.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

A Thought May Be Very Commendable As A Thought, But I Value It Chiefly As A Window Through Which I Can Obtain Insight On The Thinker.