Time Deals Gently With Me;

There Is A Land, Where The Roses Are Without Thorns, Where The Flowers Are Not Mixed With Brambles. In That Land, There Is Eternal Spring, And Light Without Any Cloud. The Tree Of Life Groweth In The Midst Thereof; Rivers Of Pleasures Are There, And Flowers That Never Fade. Myriads Of Happy Spirits Are There, And Surround The Throne Of God With A Perpetual Hymn. The Angels With Their Golden Harps Sing Praises Continually, And The Cherubim Fly On Wings Of Fire! This Country Is Heaven.

Children Have Almost An Intuitive Discernment Between The Maxims You Bring Forward For Their Use, And Those By Which You Direct Your Own Conduct.

Eternity.—thy Name Or Glad, Or Fearful, We Pronounce, As Thoughts Wandering In Darkness Shape Thee. Thou Strange Being, Which Art And Must Be, Yet Which Contradict'st All Sense, All Reasoning,—thou, Who Never Wast Less Than Thyself, And Who Still Art Thyself Entire, Though The Deep Draught Which Time Has Taken Equals Thy Present Store—no Line Can Reach To Thy Unfathomed Depths. The Reasoning Sage Who Can Dissect A Sunbeam, Count The Stars, And Measure Distant Worlds, Is Here A Child, And, Humbled, Drops His Calculating Pen.

Nobody Ought To Be Too Old To Improve: I Should Be Sorry If I Was; And I Flatter Myself I Have Already Improved Considerably By My Travels. First, I Can Swallow Gruel Soup, Egg Soup, And All Manner Of Soups, Without Making Faces Much. Secondly, I Can Pretty Well Live Without Tea.

The Dead Of Midnight Is The Noon Of Thought.