When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.

Who longest waits most surely wins.