The Waste Of Plenty Is The Resource

My Thoughts By Night Are Often Filled With Visions False As Fair: For In The Past Alone, I Build My Castles In The Air.

Death Comes To All. His Cold And Sapless Hand Waves O'er The World, And Beckons Us Away. Who Shall Resist The Summons?

Laughter Ispleasant, Butthe Exertion Istoomuchfor Me.

The Present Is Our Own; But While We Speak, We Cease From Its Possession, And Resign The Stage We Tread On, To Another Race, As Vain, And Gay, And Mortal As Ourselves.

The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight Genius In Its Infancy; That Which Rises In Spite Of Him He Will Not See; And Then He Complains Of The Decline Of Literature.