Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.

The nunneries of silent nooks, the murmured longing of the wood.

All thoughtful men are solitary and original in themselves.

Blessed are they who have nothing to say and who cannot be persuaded to say it.

Thank God every morning when you get up that you have something to do that day, which must be done, whether you like it or not.

Those who love are but one step from heaven.

AND what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.