The delicate thought, that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air.

One big vice in a man is apt to keep out a great many smaller ones.

Never a tear bedims the eye that time and patience will not dry.

Thiar ain't no sense In gittin' riled!

Which I wish to remark-- And my language is plain,-- That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar.

A bird in the hand is a certainty, but a bird in the bush may sing.

Each lost day has its patron saint!