Our Sweetest Songs Are Those That Tell

O Heart, And Mind, And Thoughts! What Thing Do You Hope To Inherit In The Grave Below?

Love! Dearest, Sweetest Power! How Much Are We Indebted To Thee! How Much Superior Are Even Thy Miseries To The Pleasures Which Arise From Other Sources!

Think Ye By Gazing On Each Other's Eyes To Multiply Your Lovely Selves?

The Warm Sun Is Failing, The Bleak Wind Is Wailing, The Bare Boughs Are Sighing, The Pale Flowers Are Dying, And The Year On The Earth Her Death-bed, In A Shroud Of Leaves Dead, Is Lying. . . .

Man Who Man Would Be, Must Rule The Empire Of Himself.