God Has Made Sleep To

Pushing Any Truth Out Very Far, You Are Met By A Counter-truth.

There Is No Such Thing As White Lies; A Lie Is As Black As A Coalpit, And Twice As Foul.

A Library Is But The Soul's Burial Ground; It Is The Land Of Shadows. Yet One Is Impressed With The Thought, The Labor, And The Struggle, Represented In This Vast Catacomb Of Books. Who Could Dream, By The Placid Waters That Issue From The Level Mouths Of Brooks Into The Lake, All The Plunges, The Whirls, The Divisions, And Foaming Rushes That Had Brought Them Down To The Tranquil Exit? And Who Can Guess Through What Channels Of Disturbance, And Experiences Of Sorrow, The Heart Passed That Has Emptied Into This Dead Sea Of Books?

There Is Not A Single Heart But Has Its Moments Of Longing.

Grim Care, Moroseness, Anxiety-all This Rust Of Life Ought To Be Scoured Off By The Oil Of Mirth. Mirth Is God's Medicine.