No One Should Be Rich Except Those

Our Destiny Often Looks Like A Fruit-tree In Winter. Who Would Think From Its Pitiable Aspect That Those Rigid Boughs, Those Rough Twigs Could Next Spring Again Be Green, Bloom, And Even Bear Fruit? Yet We Hope It, We Know It.

The Coward Only Threatens When He Is Safe.

All That Is Noble Is In Itself Of A Quiet Nature, And Appears To Sleep Until It Is Aroused And Summoned Forth By Contrast.

The Suffering May Be Moral Or Physical; And In My Opinion It Is Just As Absurd To Call A Man A Coward Who Destroys Himself, As To Call A Man A Coward Who Dies Of A Malignant Fever.

The Bed Of Flowers Loosens Amain, The Beauteous Snowdrops Droop O'er The Plain. The Crocus Opens Its Glowing Bud, Like Emeralds Others, Others, Like Blood. With Saucy Gesture Primroses Flare, And Roguish Violets, Hidden With Care; And Whatsoever There Stirs And Strives, The Spring's Contented, If Works And Thrives.