Truth Is The Golden Girdle Of The

It Is A Terrible Thought, That Nothing Is Ever Forgotten; That Not An Oath Is Ever Uttered That Does Not Continue To Vibrate Through All Times, In The Wide Spreading Current Of Sound; That Not A Prayer Is Lisped, That Its Record Is Not To Be Found St

[my Kitten] Is Dressed In A Tortoise-shell Suit, And I Know You Will Delight In Her.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.

'tis Liberty Alone That Gives The Flower Of Fleeting Life Its Lustre And Perfume; And We Are Weeds Without It.