It Often Comes Into My

Solitude Is The Audience-chamber Of God.

In The Morn Of Life We Are Alert, We Are Heated In Its Noon, And Only In Its Decline Do We Repose.

Life Is But Sighs; And, When They Cease, 'tis Over.

The Wise Become As The Unwise In The Enchanted Chambers Of Power, Whose Lamps Make Every Face The Same Colour.

Wise Or Unwise, Who Doubts For A Moment That Contentment Is The Cause Of Happiness? Yet The Inverse Is True: We Are Contented Because We Are Happy, And Not Happy Because We Are Contented. Well-regulated Minds May Be Satisfied With A Small Portion Of Happiness; None Can Be Happy With A Small Portion Of Content.