It Is Not Of So Much Consequence

In My Garden I Spend My Days, In My Library I Spend My Nights. My Interests Are Divided Between My Geraniums And My Books. With The Flower I Am In The Present; With The Book I Am In The Past.

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.

A Brave Soul Is A Thing Which All Things Serve.

Eternity Doth Wear Upon Her Face The Veil Of Time. They Only See The Veil, And Thus They Know Not What They Stand So Near!

My Friend Is Not Perfect-no More Than I Am-and So We Suit Each Other Admirable.