The Flame Of Anger, Bright And Brief,

Moroseness Is The Evening Of Turbulence.

There Is No Eloquence Which Does Not Agitate The Soul.

I See The Rainbow In The Sky, The Dew Upon The Grass; I See Them, And I Ask Not Why They Glimmer Or They Pass. With Folded Arms I Linger Not To Call Them Back; 'twere Vain: In This, Or In Some Other Spot, I Know They'll Shine Again.

We Talk On Principal, But Act On Motivation.

No Thoroughly Occupied Person Was Ever Found Really Miserable.