How Beautiful The Yesterday That Stood Over

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

A Man Gazing At The Stars Is Proverbially At The Mercy Of The Puddles In The Road.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October, When The Trees Are Bare To The Mild Heavens, And The Red Leaves Bestrew The Road, And You Can Feel The Breath Of Winter, Morning And Evening - No Days So Calm, So Tenderly Solemn, And With Such A Reverent Meekness In The Air.

My Heart Like Moon-charmed Waters, All Unrest.

A Man's Real Possession Is His Memory. In Nothing Else Is He Rich, In Nothing Else Is He Poor.