Those Who In Living Fill The Smallest

This Is The Pleasantest Part Of Life. Oblivion Throws Her Light Coverlet Over Our Infancy; And, Soon After We Are Out Of The Cradle We Forget How Soundly We Had Been Slumbering, And How Delightful Were Our Dreams. Toil And Pleasure Contend For Us Almost The Instant We Rise From It: And Weariness Follows Whichever Has Carried Us Away. We Stop Awhile, Look Around Us, Wonder To Find We Have Completed The Circle Of Existence, Fold Our Arms, And Fall Asleep Again.

A Mercantile Democracy May Govern Long And Widely; A Mercantile Aristocracy Cannot Stand.

Life Is But Sighs; And, When They Cease, 'tis Over.

I Have Since Written What No Tide Shall Ever Wash Away, What Men Unborn Shall Read O'er Ocean Wide And Find Ianthe's Name Agen.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.