Fame Is But An Inscription On A

If We Were To Live Here Always, With No Other Care Than How To Feed, Clothe, And House Ourselves, Life Would Be A Very Sorry Business. It Is Immeasurably Heightened By The Solemnity Of Death.

To Have To Die Is A Distinction Of Which No Man Is Proud.

We Twain Have Met Like The Ships Upon The Sea, Who Behold An Hour's Converse, So Short, So Sweet: One Little Hour! And Then, Away They Speed On Lonely Paths, Through Mist, And Cloud, And Foam, To Meet No More.

I Go Into My Library And All History Unrolls Before Me.

Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem Of May.