Lived In His Saddle, Loved

Books Are Not Seldom Talismans And Spells.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

Not To Understand A Treasure's Worth Till Time Has Stole Away The Slighted Good, Is Cause Of Half The Poverty We Feel, And Makes The World The Wilderness It Is.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die