Love Is Never Lost. If Not Reciprocated,

I Profess Not To Know How Women's Hearts Are Wooed And Won. To Me They Have Always Been Matters Of Riddle And Admiration.

The Moan Of The Whip-poor-will From The Hillside; The Boding Cry Of The Tree-toad, That Harbinger Of Storm; The Dreary Hooting Of The Screechowl.

Too Young For Woe, Though Not For Tears.

There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who Seem Proof Against The Mutability Of Language, Because They Have Rooted Themselves In The Unchanging Principles Of Human Nature. They Are Like Gigantic Trees That We Sometimes See On The Banks Of A Stream; Which, By Their Vast And Deep Roots, Penetrating Through The Mere Surface, And Laying Hold On The Very Foundations Of The Earth, Preserve The Soil Around Them From Being Swept Away By The Ever-flowing Current, And Hold Up Many A Neighboring Plant, And Perhaps Worthless Weed, To Perpetuity.

[i]n The Gloomy Month Of February.... The Deserts Of Arabia Are Not More Dreary And Inhospitable Than The Streets Of London At Such A Time.