How Sweet And Sacred Idleness Is!

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.

The Damps Of Autumn Sink Into The Leaves And Prepare Them For The Necessity Of Their Fall; And Thus Insensibly Are We, As Years Close Around Us, Detached From Our Tenacity Of Life By The Gentle Pressure Of Recorded Sorrow.

Truth Sometimes Corner Unawares Upon Caution, And Sometimes Speaks In Public As Unconsciously As In A Dream.

Clear Writers, Like Fountains, Do Not Seem So Deep As They Are; The Turbid Look The Most Profound.

Tyrants Never Perish From Tyranny, But Always From Folly,-when Their Fantasies Have Built Up A Palace For Which The Earth Has No Foundation.