Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By Air-vessels; Make Air Instead Of Sea Voyages; And At Length Find Our Way To The Moon, In Spite Of The Want Of Atmosphere.

But Quiet To Quick Bosoms Is A Hell.

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.