There Is A Healthful Hardiness About Real

How Idle A Boast, After All, Is The Immortality Of A Name! Time Is Ever Silently Turning Over His Pages; We Are Too Much Engrossed By The Story Of The Present To Think Of The Character And Anecdotes That Gave Interest To The Past; And Each Age Is A Volume Thrown Aside And Forgotten.

Redundancy Of Language Is Never Found With Deep Reflection. Verbiage May Indicate Observation, But Not Thinking. He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts.

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

The Sorrow For The Dead Is The Only Sorrow From Which We Refuse To Be Divorced. Every Other Wound We Seek To Heal - Every Other Affliction To Forget: But This Wound We Consider It A Duty To Keep Open - This Affliction We Cherish And Brood Over In Solitude.