To Conceal Anything From Those To Whom

Nothing Is Discovered Without God's Intention And Assistance, And I Suppose Every New Knowledge Of His Works That Is Conceded To Man To Be Distinctly A Revelation By Which Men Are To Guide Themselves.

Christmas Is A Poor Excuse Every 25th Of December To Pick A Man's Pockets.

She Forgot To Be Shy At The Moment, In Honestly Warning Him Away From The Sunken Wreck He Had A Dream Of Raising; And Looked At Him With Eyes Which Assuredly, In Association With Her Patient Face, Her Fragile Figure, Her Spare Dress, And The Wind And Rain, Did Not Turn Him From His Purpose Of Helping Her.

The Earth Covered With A Sable Pall As For The Burial Of Yesterday; The Clumps Of Dark Trees, Its Giant Plumes Of Funeral Feathers, Waving Sadly To And Fro: All Hushed, All Noiseless, And In Deep Repose, Save The Swift Clouds That Skim Across The Moon, And The Cautious Wind, As, Creeping After Them Upon The Ground, It Stops To Listen, And Goes Rustling On, And Stops Again, And Follows, Like A Savage On The Trail.

A New Heart For A New Year, Always!