This Garden Has A Soul, I Know

Poetry Is The Breath Of Beauty.

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

Tears And Sorrows And Losses Are A Part Of What Must Be Experienced In This Present State Of Life: Some For Our Manifest Good, And Ail, Therefore, It Is Trusted, For Our Good Concealed;--for Our Final And Greatest Good.

Did You Ever Observe That Immoderate Laughter Always Ends In A Sigh?

O Scaly, Slippery, Wet, Swift, Staring Wights, What Is 't Ye Do? What Life Lead? Eh, Dull Goggles? How Do Ye Vary Your Vile Days And Nights? How Pass Your Sundays? Are Ye Still But Joggles In Ceaseless Wash? Still Nought But Gapes And Bites, And Drinks, And Stares, Diversified With Boggles.