It Is Through Beauty That We Arrive

Strange Customs Do Not Thrive In Foreign Soil.

Satisfy A Few To Please Many Is Bad.

Death Is A Mighty Mediator. There All The Flames Of Rage Are Extinguished, Hatred Is Appeased, And Angelic Pity, Like A Weeping Sister, Bends With Gentle And Close Embrace Over The Funeral Urn.

He Cannot Complain Of A Hard Sentence, Who Is Made Master Of His Own Fate.

Spring Flies, And With It All The Train It Leads; And Flowers, In Fading, Leave Us But Their Seeds.