It Lightens The Stroke To Draw Near

The Oil And Wine Of Merry Meeting.

He Is The True Enchanter, Whose Spell Operates, Not Upon The Senses, But Upon The Imagination And The Heart.

He Who Would Study Nature In Its Wildness And Variety, Must Plunge Into The Forest, Must Explore The Glen, Must Stem The Torrent, And Dare The Precipice.

The Scholar Only Knows How Dear These Silent, Yet Eloquent, Companions Of Pure Thoughts And Innocent Hours Become In The Season Of Adversity. When All That Is Worldly Turns To Dross Around Us, These Only Retain Their Steady Value.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power.