On A Lone Winter Evening, When The

My Mind Has Been The Most Discontented And Restless One That Ever Was Put Into A Body Too Small For It.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

O Let Me Lead Her Gently O'er The Brook, Watch Her Half-smiling Lips And Downward Look; O Let Me For One Moment Touch Her Wrist; Let Me One Moment To Her Breathing List; And As She Leaves Me, May She Often Turn Her Fair Eyes Looking Through Her Locks Auburne.

The Uttered Part Of A Man's Life, Let Us Always Repeat, Bears To The Unuttered, Unconscious Part A Small Unknown Proportion. He Himself Never Knows It, Much Less Do Others.

If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is Probably Not True.