The Flame Of Anger, Bright And Brief,

Wise Or Unwise, Who Doubts For A Moment That Contentment Is The Cause Of Happiness? Yet The Inverse Is True: We Are Contented Because We Are Happy, And Not Happy Because We Are Contented. Well-regulated Minds May Be Satisfied With A Small Portion Of Happiness; None Can Be Happy With A Small Portion Of Content.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.

To My Ninth Decade I Have Totter'd On, And No Soft Arm Bends Now My Steps To Steady; She, Who Once Led Me Where She Would, Is Gone, So When He Calls Me, Death Shall Find Me Ready.

I Delight In The Diffusion Of Learning; Yet, I Must Confess It, I Am Most Gratified And Transported At Finding A Large Quantity Of It In One Place; Just As I Would Rather Have A Solid Pat Of Butter At Breakfast, Than A Splash Of Grease Upon The Table-cloth That Covers Half Of It.

I See The Rainbow In The Sky, The Dew Upon The Grass; I See Them, And I Ask Not Why They Glimmer Or They Pass. With Folded Arms I Linger Not To Call Them Back; 'twere Vain: In This, Or In Some Other Spot, I Know They'll Shine Again.