Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

That Which In England We Call The Middle Class Is In America Virtually The Nation.

Truth Illuminates And Gives Joy; And It Is By The Bond Of Joy, Not Of Pleasure, That Men's Spirits Are Indissolubly Held.

But So Many Books Thou Readest, But So Many Schemes Thou Breedest, But So Many Wishes Feedest, That Thy Poor Head Almost Turns.

Fate Gave, What Chance Shall Not Control, His Sad Lucidity Of Soul.

On Sundays, At The Matin-chime, The Alpine Peasants, Two And Three, Climb Up Here To Pray; Burghers And Dames, At Summer's Prime, Ride Out To Church From Chamberry, Dight With Mantles Gay, But Else It Is A Lonely Time Round The Church Of Brou.