Whatever Hath Been Written Shall Remain, Nor

The Everyday Cares And Duties, Which Men Call Drudgery, Are The Weights And Counterpoises Of The Clock Of Time, Giving Its Pendulum A True Vibration And Its Hands A Regular Motion; And When They Cease To Hang Upon Its Wheels, The Pendulum No Longer Swings, The Hands No Longer Move The Clock Stands Still.

To-morrow! The Mysterious, Unknown Guest, Who Cries To Me: "remember Barmecide, And Tremble To Be Happy With The Rest." And I Make Answer: "i Am Satisfied; I Dare Not Ask; I Know Not What Is Best; God Hath Already Said What Shall Betide.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.

Sit In Reverie And Watch The Changing Color Of The Waves That Break Upon The Idle Seashore Of The Mind.

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark