No Literature Is Complete Until The Language

He Looks The Whole World In The Face For He Owes Not Any Man.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

If You Would Hit The Mark, You Must Aim A Little Above It.