We Often Excuse Our Own Want Of

Death Is The Chillness That Precedes The Dawn; We Shudder For A Moment, Then Awake In The Broad Sunshine Of The Other Life.

Often Times We Call A Man [or Woman] Cold When He [or She] Is Only Sad.

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

Where'er A Noble Deed Is Wrought, Where'er Is Spoken A Noble Thought, Our Hearts In Glad Surprise To Higher Levels Rise.

Ambition Is So Powerful A Passion In The Human Breast, That However High We Reach We Are Never Satisfied.