It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.

Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.