Names Are But Noise And Smoke, Obscuring

When We See The Many Grave-stones Which Have Fallen In, Which Have Been Defaced By The Footsteps Of The Congregation, Which Lie Buried Under The Ruins Of The Churches, That Have Themselves Crumbled Together Over Them; We May Fancy The Life After Death To Be As A Second Life, Into Which Man Enters In The Figure, Or The Picture Or The Inscription, And Lives Longer There Than When He Was Really Alive. But This Figure Also, This Second Existence, Dies Out Too, Sooner Or Later. Time Will Not Allow Himself To Be Cheated Of His Rights With The Monuments Of Men Or With Themselves.

He Who Enjoys Doing And Enjoys What He Has Done Is Happy.

At Bottom, No Real Object Is Unpoetical, If The Poet Knows How To Use It Properly.

Strike The Dog Dead, It's But A Critic!

Difficulties Increase The Nearer We Get To The Goal.