Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A

On A Lone Winter Evening, When The Frost Has Wrought A Silence.

He Who Saddens At Thought Of Idleness Cannot Be Idle, / And He's Awake Who Thinks Himself Asleep.

My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of Claret On My Tomb.

If I Should Die, I Have Left No Immortal Work Behind Me — Nothing To Make My Friends Proud Of My Memory — But I Have Loved The Principle Of Beauty In All Things, And If I Had Had Time I Would Have Made Myself Remembered.

When I Have Fears That I May Ceace To Be, Before My Pen Has Gleaned My Teaming Brain".