There Seems A Life In Hair, Though

It Flows Through Old Hushed Egypt And Its Sands, Like Some Grave Mighty Thought Threading A Dream, And Times And Things, As In That Vision, Seem Keeping Along It Their Eternal Stands.

Christmas Is The Glorious Time Of Great Too-much.

Whatever Evil Befalls Us, We Ought To Ask Ourselves... How We Can Turn It Into Good. So Shall We Take Occasion, From One Bitter Root, To Raise Perhaps Many Flowers.

Hair Is The Most Delicate And Lasting Of Our Materials, And Survives Us, Like Love. It Is So Light, So Gentle; So Escaping From The Idea Of Death, That, With A Lock Of Hair Belonging To A Child Or Friend, We May Almost Look Up To Heaven And Compare Notes With The Angelic Nature,--may Almost Say, "i Have A Piece Of Thee Here Not Unworthy Of Thy Being Now.

Sympathizing And Selfish People Are Alike, Both Given To Tears.