My Heart Is Its Own Grave!

It Is A Curious Fact, But One Which All Experience Owns, That People Do Not Desire So Much To Appear Better, As To Appear Different From What They Really Are.

There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.

We Are Rarely Wrong When We Act From Impulse.

Nothing But Love Can Answer To Love; No Affection, No Kindness, No Care, Can Supply Its Place: It Is Its Own Sweet Want.

A Blossom Full Of Promise Is Life's Joy, That Never Comes To Fruit. Hope, For A Time, Suns The Young Floweret In Its Gladsome Light, And It Looks Flourishing--a Little While-- 't Is Pass'd, We Know Not Whither, But 't Is Gone.