Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into

As Turning The Logs Will Make A Dull Fire Burn, So Change Of Studies A Dull Brain.

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

The Market-place, The Eager Love Of Gain, Whose Aim Is Vanity, And Whose End Is Pain!

It Is True, That It Is Not At All Necessary To Love Many Books, In Order To Love Them Much.

O Thou Sculptor, Painter, Poet! Take This Lesson To Thy Heart: That Is Best Which Lieth Nearest; Shape From That Thy Work Of Art.