Whenever I Hear A Man Talking Of

Repentance Is A One-faced Janus, Ever Looking To The Past.

A Blossom Full Of Promise Is Life's Joy, That Never Comes To Fruit. Hope, For A Time, Suns The Young Floweret In Its Gladsome Light, And It Looks Flourishing--a Little While-- 't Is Pass'd, We Know Not Whither, But 't Is Gone.

Doubts, Like Facts, Are Stubborn Things.

In Sad Truth, Half Our Forebodings Of Our Neighbors Are But Our Own Wishes, Which We Are Ashamed To Utter In Any Other Form.

That Which Is Always Within Our Reach, Is Always The Last Thing We Take; And The Chances Are, That What We Can Do Every Day, We Never Do At All.