A Variety Of Nothing Is Superior To

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.

What A Father Says To His Children Is Not Heard By The World, But It Will Be Heard By Posterity.

With So Many Thousand Joys, Is It Not Black Ingratitude To Call The World A Place Of Sorrow And Torment?

The Darkness Of Death Is Like The Evening Twilight; It Makes All Objects Appear More Lovely To The Dying.

Strong Characters Are Brought Out By Change Of Situation, And Gentle Ones By Permanence.