Let Us Be Merciful As Well As

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

The Day Is Done; And Slowly From The Scene The Stooping Sun Upgathers His Spent Shafts, And Puts Them Back Into His Golden Quiver!

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

There Are Favorable Hours For Reading A Book, As For Writing It.

We Waste Our Best Years In Distilling The Sweetest Flowers Of Life Into Potions Which, After All, Do Not Immortalize, But Only Intoxicate.