The Air Is All Softness.

Deep In The Shady Sadness Of A Vale Far Sunken From The Healthy Breath Of Morn, Far From The Fiery Noon And Eve's One Star, Sat Gray-haired Saturn, Quiet As A Stone, Still As The Silence Round About His Lair.

I Would Sooner Fail Than Not Be Among The Greatest.

An Extensive Knowledge Is Needful To Thinking People-it Takes Away The Heat And Fever; And Helps, By Widening Speculation, To Ease The Burden Of The Mystery.

There Is An Old Saying "well Begun Is Half Done"-'tis A Bad One. I Would Use Instead-not Begun At All 'til Half Done.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun; Conspiring With Him How To Load And Bless With Fruit The Vines That Round The Thatch-eves Run; To Bend With Apples The Moss’d Cottage-trees, And Fill All Fruit With Ripeness To The Core; To Swell The Gourd, And Plump The Hazel Shells With A Sweet Kernel; To Set Budding More, And Still More, Later Flowers For The Bees, Until They Think Warm Days Will Never Cease, For Summer Has O’er-brimm’d Their Clammy Cells.