I Have Often Thought What A Melancholy

Memory, Bosom-spring Of Joy.

How Well He Fell Asleepl Like Some Proud River, Widening Toward The Sea; Calmly And Grandly, Silently And Deep, Life Joined Eternity.

Oh, The Difficulty Of Fixing The Attention Of Men On The World Within Them!

An Idea, In The Highest Sense Of That Word, Cannot Be Conveyed But By A Symbol.

Facts Are Not Truths; They Are Not Conclusions; They Are Not Even Premises, But In The Nature And Parts Of Premises.