The New Is Older Than

Nothing Can Be So Bad As To Be Displeased With One's Self.

For April Sobs While These Are So Glad April Weeps While These Are So Gay,- Weeps Like A Tired Child Who Had, Playing With Flowers, Lost Its Way.

I Shall Be Found With 'indians' Engraved On My Brain When I Am Dead. A Fire Has Been Kindled Within Me, Which Will Never Go Out.

But All Lost Things Are In The Angels' Keeping, Love; No Past Is Dead For Us, But Only Sleeping, Love; The Years Of Heaven With All Earth's Little Pain Make Good Together There We Can Begin Again, In Babyhood.

Most Men Call Fretting A Minor Fault, A Foible, And Not A Vice. There Is No Vice Except Drunkenness Which Can So Utterly Destroy The Peace, The Happiness Of A Hoe.