My Altars Are The Mountains And The

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

What's Drinking? A Mere Pause From Thinking!