Men, Like Bullets, Go Farthest When They

A Sky Full Of Silent Suns.

For No One Does Life Drag More Disagreeably Than For Those Who Try To Speed It Up.

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.

Men, Like Bullets, Go Farthest When They Are Smoothest.

As Winter Strips The Leaves From Around Us, So That We May See The Distant Regions They Formerly Concealed, So Old Age Takes Away Our Enjoyments Only To Enlarge The Prospect Of The Coming Eternity.