The Things Of Which We Want The

To Multiply The Harbors Does Not Reduce The Sea.

I Had No Time To Hate, Because The Grave Would Hinder Me, And Life Was Not So Ample I Could Finish Enmity Nor Had I Time To Love: But Since Some Industry Must Be, The Little Toil Of Love, I Thought, Was Large Enough For Me.

The Appetite For Silence Is Seldom An Acquired Taste.

Tis Not That Dieing Hurts Us So- Tis Living- Hurts Us More.

Besides The Autumn Poets Sing, A Few Prosaic Days, A Little This Side Of The Snow, And That Side Of The Haze..., Grant Me, Oh Lord, A Sunny Mind- Thy Windy Will To Bear!