Mirth Is The Mail Of

You Ask Of My Companions. Hills, Sir, And The Sundown, And A Dog As Large As Myself.

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?

Renunciation-is A Piercing Virtue-the Letting Go A Presence-for An Expectation-.

There Is Always One Thing To Be Grateful For - That One Is One's Self And Not Somebody Else.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.