The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And

A Great Man Leaves Clean Work Behind Him, And Requires No Sweeper Up Of The Chips.

Since When Was Genius Found Respectable?

And If God Choose I Shall But Love Thee Better After Death.

May The Good God Pardon All Good Men.

And Friends, Dear Friends,--when It Shall Be That This Low Breath Is Gone From Me, And Gone My Bier Ye Come To Weep, Let One, Most Loving Of You All, Say, "not A Tear Must O'er Her Fall; He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.