The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave

Blessings Star Forth Forever; But A Curse Is Like A Cloud, It Passes.

The Death-bed Of A Day, How Beautiful!

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.

The Value Of A Thought Cannot Be Told.

The First And Worst Of All Frauds Is To Cheat One's Self.