A Name, It Has More

Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much Knowledge.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

And There Is Even A Happiness That Makes The Heart Afraid.

Whoe'er Has Gone Thro' London Street, Has Seen A Butcher Gazing At His Meat, And How He Keeps Gloating Upon A Sheep's Or Bullock's Personals, As If His Own; How He Admires His Halves And Quarters--and His Calves, As If In Truth Upon His Own Legs Grown.