Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

Sweet As The Tender Fragrance That Survives, When Martyred Flowers Breathe Out Their Little Lives, Sweet As A Song That Once Consoled Our Pain, But Never Will Be Sung To Us Again, Is They Remembrance. Now The Hour Of Rest Hath Come To Thee. Sleep, Darling: It Is Best.

If The Mind, That Rules The Body, Ever So Far Forgets Itself As To Trample On Its Slave, The Slave Is Never Generous Enough To Forgive The Injury, But Will Rise And Smite The Oppressor.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

Great Is The Art Of Beginning, But Greater Is The Art Of Ending.

Tomorrow Is The Mysterious, Unknown Guest.