Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

Think Not Because No Man Sees, Such Things Will Remain Unseen.

Then Followed That Beautiful Season... Summer.... Filled Was The Air With A Dreamy And Magical Light; And The Landscape Lay As If New Created In All The Freshness Of Childhood.

The Natural Alone Is Permanent.

The Hooded Clouds, Like Friars, Tell Their Beads In Drops Of Rain.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.