Death Comes Equally To Us All, And

Doubt Wisely; In Strange Way To Stand Inquiring Right, Is Not To Stray; To Sleep, Or Run Wrong, Is.

Love Built On Beauty, Soon As Beauty, Dies.

Friends Are Ourselves.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

Reason Is Our Soul's Left Hand, Faith Her Right, By These We Reach Divinity