The Truth Of Truths Is Love.

We Must Not Pluck Death From The Maker's Hand.

The Course Of Nature Seems A Course Of Death, And Nothingness The Whole Substantial Thing.

Envy's A Coal Comes Hissing Hot From Hell.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

For Ivy Climbs The Crumbling Hall To Decorate Decay.