For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay,

My Flowery And Green Age Was Passing Away, And I Feeling A Chill In The Fires Had Been Wasting My Heart, For I Was Drawing Near The Hillside Above The Grave.

He Loves But Lightly Who His Love Can Tell.

Where You Are Is Of No Moment, But Only What You Are Doing There. It Is Not The Place That Ennobles You, But You The Place, And This Only By Doing That Which Is Great And Noble.

To Be Able To Say How Much Love, Is Love But Little.

When The Poet Died His Cat Was Put To Death And Mummified.