Life Hath More Awe Than Death.

Music Lives Within Thy Lips Like A Nightingale In Roses.

Leave The Poor Some Time For Self-improvement. Let Them Not Be Forced To Grind The Bones Out Of Their Arms For Bread, But Have Some Space To Think And Feel Like Moral And Immortal Creatures.

It Is Fine To Stand Upon Some Lofty Mountain Thought, And Feel The Spirit Stretch Into A View.

The Dew, 'tis Of The Tears Which Stars Weep, Sweet With Joy.

We Live Not To Ourselves, Our Work Is Life.