The Time Is Ripe, And

The One Thing Finished In This Hasty World.

There Comes Emerson First, Whose Rich Words, Every One, Are Like Gold Nails In Temples To Hang Trophies On.

No Price Is Set On The Lavish Summer; June May Be Had By The Poorest Comer.

There Is No Good In Arguing With The Inevitable. The Only Argument Available With An East Wind Is To Put On Your Overcoat.

In The Parliament Of The Present Every Man Represents A Constituency Of The Past.