And Modesty, Who, When She Goes, Is

I Warmed Both Hands Before The Fire Of Life; It Sinks, And I Am Ready To Depart.

Cats Ask Plainly For What They Want.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.

Truth Is A Point, The Subtlest And Finest; Harder Than Adamant; Never To Be Broken, Worn Away, Or Blunted. Its Only Bad Quality Is, That It Is Sure To Hurt Those Who Touch It; And Likely To Draw Blood, Perhaps The Life Blood, Of Those Who Press Earnestly Upon It.

The Heart That Once Has Been Bathed In Love's Pure Fountain Retains The Pulse Of Youth Forever.