I Am Better Than My

What Reason, Like The Careful Ant, Draws Laboriously Together, The Wind Of Accident Sometimes Collects In A Moment.

Pain Is Short, And Joy Is Eternal.

Man Is Made Of Ordinary Things, And Habit Is His Nurse.

Secrecy Is For The Happy,--misery, Hopeless Misery, Needs No Veil; Under A Thousand Suns It Dares Act Openly.

I Feel An Army In My Fist.