If Youth Is A Fault, It Is

What Is Now The Foliage Moving? Air Is Still, And Hush'd The Breeze, Sultriness, This Fullness Loving, Through The Thicket, From The Trees. Now The Eye At Once Gleams Brightly, See! The Infant Band With Mirth Moves And Dances Nimbly, Lightly, As The Morning Gave It Birth, Flutt'ring Two And Two O'er Earth.

To Think Is Easy. To Act Is Hard. But The Hardest Thing In The World Is To Act In Accordance With Your Thinking.

It Would Be A Lowly Art That Allowed Itself To Be Understood All At Once.

Would You Require A Wretched Being, Whose Life Is Slowly Wasting Under A Lingering Disease, To Despatch Himself At Once By The Stroke Of A Dagger? Does Not The Very Disorder Which Consumes His Strength Deprive Him Of The Courage To Effect His Deliverance?

No Sacred Fane Requires Us To Submit To Insult.