Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

One Half The World Must Sweat And Groan That The Other Half May Dream.

This Song Of Mine Is A Song Of The Vine To Be Sung By The Glowing Embers Of Wayside Inns, When The Rain Begins To Darken The Drear Novembers. And For The Richest And Best Is The Wind Of The West That Grows By The Beautiful River; Whose Sweet Perfume Fills All The Room With A Bension On The Giver. And When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Hime Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do.

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.