But That Which Is Useful Is The

Pass Then Through This Little Space Of Time Conformably To Nature, And End Thy Journey In Content, Just As An Olive Falls Off When It Is Ripe, Blessing Nature Who Produced It, And Thanking The Tree On Which It Grew.

He Does Not Write At All Whose Poems No Man Reads

Deem Not Life A Thing Of Consequence. For Look At The Yawning Void Of The Future, And At That Other Limitless Space, The Past.

What Doesn't Transmit Light Creates Its Own Darkness.

Death Is A Release From The Impressions Of The Senses, And From Desires That Make Us Their Puppets, And From The Vagaries Of The Mind, And From The Hard Service Of The Flesh.