Pines A Thousand Years Old. Every Year

The Heroic Soul Does Not Sell Its Justice And Its Nobleness.

All I Know Is Reception; I Am And I Have: But I Do Not Get, And When I Fancied I Had Gotten Anything, I Found I Did Not.

Every Day, A Little Sadder, A Little Madder. Will Someone Get Me A Ladder?

The Virtue In Most Request Is Conformity.

We Come To Our Own And Would Make Friends With Matter, Which The Ambitious Chatter Of The Schools Would Persuade Us To Despise. We Can Never Part With It; The Mind Loves Its Old Home: As Water To Our Thirst, So Is Rock, The Ground, To Our Eyes, And Hands, And Feet. It Is Firm Water: It Is Cold Flame: What Health, What Affinity!