The Heaven Of Poetry And

Most People Would Succeed In Small Things If They Were Not Troubled With Great Ambitions.

It Is A Beautiful Trait In The Lover's Character, That They Think No Evil Of The Object Loved.

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

And In The Wreck Of Noble Lives Something Immortal Still Survives.

Gone Are The Living, But The Dead Remain, And Not Neglected; For A Hand Unseen, Scattering Its Bounty Like A Summer Rain, Still Keeps Their Graves And Their Remembrance Green.