Procrastination Is The Thief Of Time, Collar

There Seems A Magic In The Very Name Of Christmas.

It Is When Our Budding Hopes Are Nipped Beyond Recovery By Some Rough Wind, That We Are The Most Disposed To Picture To Ourselves What Flowers They Might Have Borne, If They Had Flourished . . .

Nothing Of What Is Nobly Done Is Ever Lost.

Renunciation Remains Sorrow, Though A Sorrow Borne Willingly.

The Aphorism "whatever Is, Is Right," Would Be As Final As It Is Lazy, Did It Not Include The Troublesome Consequence That Nothing That Ever Was, Was Wrong.