The Grave Itself Is But A Covered

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest.

A Coquette Is A Young Lady Of More Beauty Than Sense, More Accomplishments Than Learning, More Charms Not Person Than Graces Of Mind, More Admirers Than Friends, Mole Fools Than Wise Men For Attendants.

Nor Deem The Irrevocable Past As Wholly Wasted, Wholly Vain, If, Rising On Its Wrecks, At Last To Something Nobler We Attain.

Sweet April! Many A Thought Is Wedded Unto Thee, As Hearts Are Wed; Nor Shall They Fail, Till, To Its Autumn Brought, Life's Golden Fruit Is Shed.

A Torn Jacket Is Soon Mended; But Hard Words Bruise The Heart Of A Child.