It Is The Evil That

Most Creatures Have A Vague Belief That A Very Precarious Hazard, A Kind Of Transparent Membrane, Divides Death From Love; And That The Profound Idea Of Nature Demands That The Giver Of Life Should Die At The Moment Of Giving.

The Souls Of All Our Brethren Are Ever Hovering About Us, Craving For A Caress, And Only Waiting For The Signal.

An Act Of Goodness Is Of Itself An Act Of Happiness.

When We Lose One We Love, Our Bitterest Tears Are Called Forth By The Memory Of Hours When We Loved Not Enough.

Physical Suffering Apart, Not A Single Sorrow Exists That Can Touch Us Except Through Our Thoughts.