Beauty Too Often Sacrifices To Fashion.

If You Become A Nun, Dear, The Bishop Love Will Be; The Cupids Every One, Dear! Will Chant-'we Trust In Thee!'

Table Talk, To Be Perfect, Should Be Sincere Without Bigotry, Differing Without Discord, Sometimes Grave, Always Agreeable, Touching On Deep Points, Dwelling Most On Seasonable Ones, And Letting Everybody Speak And Be Heard.

There Is Scarcely A Single Joy Or Sorrow Within The Experience Of Our Fellow-creatures Which We Have Not Tasted; Yet The Belief, In The Good And Beautiful Has Never Forsaken Us. It Has Been Medicine To Us In Sickness, Richness In Poverty, And The Best Part Of All That Ever Delighted Us In Health And Success.

Affection, Like Melancholy, Magnifies Trifles; But The Magnifying Of The One Is Like Looking Through A Telescope At Heavenly Objects; That Of The Other, Like Enlarging Monsters With A Microscope.

The Golden Line Is Drawn Between Winter And Summer. Behind All Is Blackness And Darkness And Dissolution. Before Is Hope, And Soft Airs, And The Flowers, And The Sweet Season Of Hay; And People Will Cross The Fields, Reading Or Walking With One Another; And Instead Of The Rain That Soaks Death Into The Heart Of Green Things, Will Be The Rain Which They Drink With Delight; And There Will Be Sleep On The Grass At Midday, And Early Rising In The Morning, And Long Moonlight Evenings.