Music Is The Medicine Of The Breaking

Write Me As One Who Loves His Fellow Men.

It Is A Delicious Moment, Certainly, That Of Being Well Nestled In Bed, And Feeling That You Shall Drop Gently To Sleep. The Good Is To Come, Not Past; The Limbs Have Just Been Tired Enough To Render The Remaining In One Posture Delightful; The Labour Of The Day Is Gone

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

This Garden Has A Soul, I Know Its Moods.

With Spots Of Sunny Openings, And With Nooks To Lie And Read In, Sloping Into Brooks.