Be An Opener Of Doors For Such

None Shall Rule But The Humble,and None But Toil Shall Have.

The Life Of Truth Is Cold.

Announced By All The Trumpets Of The Sky, Arrives The Snow, And, Driving O'er The Fields, Seems Nowhere To Alight: The Whited Air Hides Hills And Woods, The River, And The Heaven, And Veils The Farmhouse At The Garden's End. The Sled And Traveller Stopped, The Courier's Feet Delayed, All Friends Shut Out, The Housemates Sit Around The Radiant Fireplace, Enclosed In A Tumultuous Privacy Of Storm.

Never Read Any Book That Is Not A Year Old.

Ah, If The Rich Were Rich As The Poor Fancy Riches.