Journalism Is Literature In A Hurry.

The Heart Less Bounding At Emotion New, The Hope, Once Crushed, Less Quick To Spring Again.

Time May Restore Us In His Course Goethe's Sage Mind And Byron's Force: But Where Will Europe's Latter Hour Again Find Wordsworth's Healing Power?

The Brave, Impetuous Heart Yields Everywhere To The Subtle, Contriving Head.

Strew On Her Roses, Roses, And Never A Spray Of Yew! In Quiet She Reposes; Ah, Would That I Did Too!

What Is It To Grow Old? Is It To Lose The Glory Of The Form, The Lustre Of The Eye? Is It For Beauty To Forego Her Wreath? Yes; But Not This Alone.