The Sun Was Down, And

Your Death And My Death Are Mainly Of Importance To Ourselves. The Black Plumes Will Be Stripped Off Our Hearses Within The Hour; Tears Will Dry, Hurt Hearts Close Again, Our Graves Grow Level With The Church-yard, And Although We Are Away, The World Wags On. It Does Not Miss Us; And Those Who Are Near Us, When The First Strangeness Of Vacancy Wears Off, Will Not Miss Us Much Either.

Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads In Its Own Footsteps.

The Truly Great Rest In The Knowledge Of Their Own Deserts, Nor Seek The Conformation Of The World.

A Brave Soul Is A Thing Which All Things Serve.

A Poem Round And Perfect As A Star.