The Quiet Tenderness Of Chaucer,

There Is No Bore We Dread Being Left Alone With So Much As Our Own Minds.

Humbleness Is Always Grace; Always Dignity

His Heart Kep' Goin' Pity-pat, But Hern Went Pity-zekle.

What Visionary Tints The Year Puts On, When Falling Leaves Falter Through Motionless Air Or Numbly Cling And Shiver To Be Gone! How Shimmer The Low Flats And Pastures Bare, As With Her Nectar Hebe Autumn Fills The Bowl Between Me And Those Distant Hills, And Smiles And Shakes Abroad Her Misty, Tremulous Hair!

Whatever You May Be Sure Of, Be Sure Of This, That You Are Dreadfully Like Other People.