Here Let Me Sit In

The Hawthorn Bush, With Seats Beneath The Shade, For Talking Age And Whispering Lovers Made.

And Still They Gazed, And Still The Wonder Grew, That One Small Head Could Carry All He Knew.

Mortifications Are Often More Painful Than Real Calamities.

[t]here Are Depths Of Thousands Of Miles Which Are Hidden From Our Inquiry. The Only Tidings We Have From Those Unfathomable Regions Are By Means Of Volcanoes, Those Burning Mountains That Seem To Discharge Their Materials From The Lowest Abysses Of The Earth.

The Little Mind Who Loves Itself, Will Wr'te And Think With The Vulgar; But The Great Mind Will Be Bravely Eccentric, And Scorn The Beaten Road, From Universal Benevolence.