The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

The Man Who In This World Can Keep The Whiteness Of His Soul Is Not Likely To Lose It In Any Other.

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.

Men Praise Poverty, As The African Worships Mumbo Jumbo--from Terror Of The Malign Power, And A Desire To Propitiate At.

There Is A Slow-growing Beauty Which Only Comes To Perfection In Old Age.... I Have Seen Sweeter Smiles On A Lip Of Seventy Than I Ever Saw On A Lip Of Seventeen. There Is The Beauty Of Youth, And There Is Also The Beauty Of Holiness—a Beauty Much More Seldom Met; And More Frequently Found In The Arm-chair By The Fire, With Grandchildren Around Its Knee, Than In The Ball-room Or The Promenade.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.