To Sit For One's Portrait

Everything Is Sweetened By Risk.

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.

If The Egotist Is Weak, His Egotism Is Worthless. If The Egotist Is Strong, Acute, Full Of Distinctive Character, His Egotism Is Precious, And Remains A Possession Of The Race.

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.