And It Was Not Until

Procrastination Is The Thief Of Time, Collar Him.

Surely There Had Been No Figure Leaning On The Back Of His Chair; No Face Looking Over It. It Is Certain That No Gliding Footstep Touched The Floor, As He Lifted Up His Head, With A Start, And Spoke. And Yet There Was No Mirror In The Room On Whose Surface His Own Form Could Have Cast Its Shadow For A Moment; And, Something Had Passed Darkly And Gone!

There Is Nothing--no, Nothing--innocent Or Good, That Dies And Is Forgotten; Let Us Hold To That Faith Or None. An Infant, A Prattling Child, Dying In The Cradle, Will Live Again In The Better Thoughts Of Those That Loved It, And Play Its Part Through Them In The Redeeming Actions Of The World, Though Its Body Be Burnt To Ashes Or Drowned In The Deep Sea.

It's In Vain To Recall The Past, Unless It Works Some Influence Upon The Present.

It Was A Long And Gloomy Night That Gathered On Me, Haunted By The Ghosts Of Many Hopes, Of Many Dear Remembrances, Many Errors, Many Unavailing Sorrows And Regrets.