These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With

The Soul, Cramped Among The Petty Vexations Of Earth, Needs To Keep Its Windows Constantly Open To The Invigorating Air Of Large And Free Ideas: And What Thought Is So Grand As That Of An Ever-present God, In Whom All That Is Vital In Humanity Breathes And Grows?

Canst Thou Prophesy, Thou Little Tree, What The Glory Of Thy Boughs Shall Be?

Whatever With The Past Has Gone, The Best Is Always Yet To Come.

A Tattered Copy Of Johnson's Large Dictionary Was A Great Delight To Me, On Account Of The Specimens Of English Versifications Which I Found In The Introduction. I Learned Them As If They Were So Many Poems. I Used To Keep This Old Volume Close To My Pillow; And I Amused Myself When I Awoke In The Morning By Reciting Its Jingling Contrasts Of Iambic And Trochaic And Dactylic Metre, And Thinking What A Charming Occupation It Must Be To "make Up" Verses.

These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With Dear Companions Now Passed Out Of Sight, Shall Not Be Laid Upon Their Graves. They Live, Since Love Is Deathless. Pleasure Now Nor Pride Is Theirs In Mortal Wise, But Hallowing Thoughts Will Meet The Offering, Of So Little Worth, Wanting The Benison Death Has Made Divine.