Swift Was The Race, But

Home Is The Sacred Refuge Of Our Life.

None, None Descends Into Himself, To Find The Secret Imperfections Of His Mind: But Every One Is Eagle-ey'd To See Another's Faults, And His Deformity.

The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Radiant Sun, Is Nature's Eye.

Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone, He, Who Can Call Today His Own.

Thoughts Cannot Form Themselves In Words So Horrid As Can Express My Guilt.