One Hates An Author That's

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.

Tis Strange,-but True; For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction: If It Could Be Told, How Much Would Novels Gain By The Exchange! How Differently The World Would Men Behold!

The Truly Brave Are Soft Of Heart And Eyes, And Feel For What Their Duty Bids Them Do.

I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By Air-vessels; Make Air Instead Of Sea Voyages; And At Length Find Our Way To The Moon, In Spite Of The Want Of Atmosphere.

Grief Should Be The Instructor Of The Wise; Sorrow Is Knowledge.