What Is Mind? No Matter.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

How Bless'd The Heart That Has A Friend. A Sympathizing Ear To Lend.

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

My Brain Is Dull, My Sight Is Foul, I Cannot Write A Verse, Or Read-- Then, Pallas, Take Away Thine Owl, And Let Us Have A Lark Instead.

It Was A Childish Ignorance, But Now 'tis Little Joy To Know I'm Further Off From Heaven Than When I Was A Boy.