The Worst Way To Improve

Evil Is Limited. One Cannot Form A Scheme For Universal Evil.

Not A Single Path Of Thought I Tread, But That It Leads To God.

Love Spends His All, And Still Hath Store.

Dewdrops, Nature's Tears, Which She Sheds In Her Own Breast For The Fair Which Die. The Sun Insists On Gladness; But At Night, When He Is Gone, Poor Nature Loves To Weep.

Man Is One; And He Hath One Great Heart. It Is Thus We Feel, With A Gigantic Throb Athwart The Sea, Each Other's Rights And Wrongs; Thus Are We Men.