A Fit Of Anger Is

Who Never Walks Save Where He Sees Men's Tracks Makes No Discoveries.

I Softly Sink Into The Bath Of Sleep: With Eyelids Shut, I See Around Me Close The Mottled, Violet Vapors Of The Deep, That Wraps Me In Repose.

The Pleasant Converse Of The Fireside, The Simple Songs Of Home, The Words Of Encouragement As I Bend Over My School-tasks, The Kiss As I Lie Down To Rest, The Patient Bearing With The Freaks Of My Restless Nature, The Gentle Counsels Mingled With Reproofs And Approvals, The Sympathy That Meets And Assuages Every Sorrow, And Sweetens Every Little Success--all These Return To Me Amid The Responsibilities Which Press Upon Me Now, And I Feel As If I Had Once Lived In Heaven, And, Straying, Had Lost My Way.

A Fortune Won In A Day Is Lost In A Day; A Fortune Won Slowly, And Slowly Compacted, Seems To Acquire From The Hand That Won It The Property Of Endurance.

There Is No Point Where Art So Nearly Touches Nature As When It Appears In The Form Of Words.