No Man Is So Poor As To

A Handful Of Red Sand From The Hot Clime Of Arab Deserts Brought, Within This Glass Becomes The Spy Of Time, The Minister Of Thought.

Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing In Its Place Is Best; And What Seems But Idle Show Strengthens And Supports The Rest.

The Bells Themselves Are The Best Of Preachers, Their Brazen Lips Are Learned Teachers, From Their Pulpits Of Stone, In The Upper Air, Sounding Aloft, Without Crack Or Flaw, Shriller Than Trumpets Under The Law, Now A Sermon And Now A Prayer.

The Happy Should Not Insist Too Much Upon Their Happiness In The Presence Of The Unhappy.

Each Day Is A Branch Of The Tree Of Life Laden Heavily With Fruit. If We Lie Down Lazily Beneath It, We May Starve; But If We Shake The Branches, Some Of The Fruit Will Fall For Us.