Murder May Pass Unpunishd For

All Authors To Their Own Defects Are Blind.

Men Are But Children Of A Larger Growth, Our Appetites As Apt To Change As Theirs, And Full As Craving Too, And Full As Vain.

A Happy Genius Is The Gift Of Nature.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Death In Itself Is Nothing; But We Fear To Be We Know Not What, We Know Not Where.