With Spots Of Sunny Openings,

Nature, At All Events, Humanly Speaking, Is Manifestly Very Fond Of Color; For She Has Made Nothing Without It. Her Skies Are Blue; Her Fields, Green; Her Waters Vary With Her Skies; Her Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Are All Colored. She Paints A Great Any Of Them In Apparently Superfluous Hues, As If To Show The Dullest Eye How She Loves Color.

Whatever Evil Befalls Us, We Ought To Ask Ourselves... How We Can Turn It Into Good. So Shall We Take Occasion, From One Bitter Root, To Raise Perhaps Many Flowers.

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

Wit Is The Clash And Reconcilement Of Incongruities; The Meeting Of Extremes Round A Corner.

An Exquisite Invention This, Worthy Of Love's Most Honeyed Kiss,-- This Art Of Writing Billet-doux-- In Buds, And Odors, And Bright Hues! In Saying All One Feels And Thinks In Clever Daffodils And Pinks; In Puns Of Tulips; And In Phrases, Charming For Their Truth, Of Daisies.