He Who Is False To

What Profusion Is There In His Work! When Trees Blossom There Is Not A Single Breastpin, But A Whole Bosom Full Of Gems; And Of Leaves They Have So Many Suits That They Can Throw Them Away To The Winds All Summer Long. What Unnumbered Cathedrals Has He Reared In The Forest Shades, Vast And Grand, Full Of Curious Carvings, And Haunted Evermore By Tremulous Music; And In The Heavens Above, How Do Stars Seem To Have Flown Out Of His Hand Faster Than Sparks Out Of A Mighty Forge!

The Newspaper Is A Greater Treasure To The People Than Uncounted Millions Of Gold.

Men Of Dissolute Lives Have Little Incentive To Look Forward To The Hopes And Glories Of Immortality. A Due Conception Of These Would Be Incompatible With Such A Life.

Nature Holds An Immense Uncollected Debt Over Every Man's Head.

Rain! Whose Soft Architectural Hands Have Power To Cut Stones, And Chisel To Shapes Of Grandeur The Very Mountains.