Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul

Years Steal Fire From The Mind As Vigor From The Limb; And Life's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

He Had Kept The Whiteness Of His Soul, And Thus Men O'er Him Wept.

I Have No Consistency, Except In Politics; And That Probably Arises From My Indifference To The Subject Altogether.

To Withdraw Myself From Myself Has Ever Been My Sole, My Entire, My Sincere Motive In Scribbling At All.