A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

The Saddest Thing That Befalls A Soul Is When It Loses Faith In God And Woman.

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

The Globe Has Been Circumnavigated, But No Man Ever Yet Has; You May Survey A Kingdom And Note The Result In Maps, But All The Savants In The World Could Not Produce A Reliable Map Of The Poorest Human Personality.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.