If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

Quick-loving hearts ... may quickly loathe.

Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

The devil's most devilish when respectable.