It Is Said That Ridicule Is The

Anticipation Is A Bad Sleeping Draught.

It Is Said That Ridicule Is The Test Of Truth: It Is Never Applied, But When We Wish To Deceive Ourselves.

My Tears Are Buried In My Heart, Like Cave-locked Fountains Sleeping.

In Our Road Through Life We May Happen To Meet With A Man Casting A Stone Reverentially To Enlarge The Cairn Of Another Which Stone He Has Carried In His Bosom To Sling Against That Very Other's Head.

I Can Pass Days Stretch'd In The Shade Of Those Old Cedar Trees, Watching The Sunshine Like A Blessing Fall,-- The Breeze Like Music Wandering O'er The Boughs, Each Tree A Natural Harp,--each Different Leaf A Different Note, Blent In One Vast Thanksgiving.