A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands,

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

I Have Imbibed Such A Love For Money That I Keep Some Sequins In A Drawer To Count, And Cry Over Them Once A Week.

I Am Not Now That Which I Have Been.

Between Two Worlds Life Hovers Like A Star, Twixt Night And Morn, Upon The Horizon's Verge.

O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.