Life Is But Sighs; And,

Death Stands Above Me, Whispering Low I Know Not What Into My Ear; Of His Strange Language All I Know Is, There Is Not A Word Of Fear.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.

Study Is The Bane Of Childhood, The Oil Of Youth, The Indulgence Of Adulthood, And A Restorative In Old Age.

Greatness, As We Daily See It, Is Unsociable.

Those Who Are Quite Satisfied Sit Still And Do Nothing; Those Who Are Not Quite Satisfied Are The Sole Benefactors Of The World.