A Town That Boasts Inhabitants Like Me

I Cannot Believe Any Man Can Be Perfectly Well In Body, Who Has Much Labor Of The Mind To Perform.

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

Art Is The Gift Of God, And Must Be Used Unto His Glory.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.

Gone Are The Living, But The Dead Remain, And Not Neglected; For A Hand Unseen, Scattering Its Bounty Like A Summer Rain, Still Keeps Their Graves And Their Remembrance Green.