Chess Is A Sad Waste Of Brains.

Profan'd The God-given Strength, And Marr'd The Lofty Line.

Many Of Our Cares Are But A Morbid Way Of Looking At Our Privileges

What Skilful Limner E'er Would Choose To Paint The Rainbow's Varying Hues, Unless To Mortal It Were Given To Dip His Brush In Dyes Of Heaven?

Where Shall The Lover Rest, Whom The Fates Sever From His True Maiden's Breast, Parted For Ever? Where, Through Groves Deep And High, Sounds The Far Billow, Where Early Violets Die, Under The Willow.

Tears Are The Softening Showers Which Cause The Seed Of Heaven To Spring Up In The Human Heart.