Life Seems A Jest Of Fate's Contriving.

A Wise Skepticism Is The First Attribute Of A Good Critic.

The Wisest Man Could Ask No More Of Fate Than To Be Simple, Modest, Manly, True, Safe From The Many, Honored By The Few; Nothing To Court In Church, Or World, Or State, But Inwardly In Secret To Be Great.

But Civlyzation Doos Git Forrid Sometimes Upon A Powder-cart.

The Ultimate Result Of Protecting Fools From Their Folly Is To Fill The Planet Full Of Fools.

What Visionary Tints The Year Puts On, When Falling Leaves Falter Through Motionless Air Or Numbly Cling And Shiver To Be Gone! How Shimmer The Low Flats And Pastures Bare, As With Her Nectar Hebe Autumn Fills The Bowl Between Me And Those Distant Hills, And Smiles And Shakes Abroad Her Misty, Tremulous Hair!