A Single Soul Is Richer Than All

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Death, Which We Are Accustomed To Consider An Evil, Really Acts For Us The Friendliest Part, And Takes Away The Commonplace Of Existence.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.

It Is A Characteristic Of Pleasure That We Can Never Recognize It To Be Pleasure Till After It Is Gone.