Death, Thou Art Infinite; It

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

I Am Tired Of Looking On What Is, One Might As Well See Beauty Never More, As Look Upon It With An Empty Eye. I Would This World Were Over. I Am Tired.

Joys Are Bubble-like--what Makes Them Bursts Them Too.

Let Us Think Less Of Men And More Of God.

Life's But A Means Unto An End, That End, Beginning, Mean, And End To All Things--god.