The Coach Does Not Play In The

I Learned To Love Despair.

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

This Is To Be Along; This, This Is Solitude!

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.