Silence Is Sorrow's Best Food.

Large Charity Doth Never Soil, But Only Whitens Soft White Hands.

Death Is Delightful. Death Is Dawn, The Waking From A Weary Night Of Fevers Unto Truth And Light.

Not Failure, But Low Aim, Is Crime.

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan Repeating Us By Rote: For Him Her Old World Moulds Aside She Threw And, Choosing Sweet Clay From The Breast Of The Unexhausted West, With Stuff Untainted Shaped A Hero New.

Practical Application Is The Only Mordant Which Will Set Things In The Memory. Study Without It Is Gymnastics, And Not Work, Which Alone Will Get Intellectual Bread.