My Heart Is Its Own Grave!

How Beautiful, Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning! The First Sunshine On The Leaves: The First Wind, Laden With The First Breath Of The Flowers—that Deep Sigh With Which They Seem To Waken From Sleep; The First Dew, Untouched Even By The Light Foot Of The Early Hare; The First Chirping Of The Rousing Birds, As If Eager To Begin Song And Flight; All Is Redolent Of The Strength Given By Rest, And The Joy Of Conscious Life.

No Hour Arrives So Soon As The One We Dread.

All Sweeping Assertions Are Erroneous.

Praise Is Sometimes A Good Thing For The Diffident And The Despondent. It Teaches Them Properly To Rely On The Kindness Of Others.

One Would Think That An Unsuccessful Volume Was Like A Degree In The School Of Reviewing. One Unread Work Makes The Judge Bitter Enough; But A Second Failure, And He Is Quite Desperate In His Damnation. I Do Believe One Half Of The Injustice - The Severity Of 'the Ungentle Craft' Originates In Its Own Want Of Success: They Cannot Forgive The Popularity Which Has Passed Them Over.