Death Comes To All. His Cold And

How Troublesome Is Day! It Calls Us From Our Sleep Away; It Bids Us From Our Pleasant Dreams Awake, And Sends Us Forth To Keep Or Break Our Promises To Pay. How Troublesome Is Day!

Marriage May Often Be A Stormy Lake, But Celibacy Is Almost Always A Muddy Horsepond.

I Like The Immaterial World. I Like To Live Among Thoughts And Images Of The Past And The Possible, And Even Of The Impossible, Now And Then.

The Truth, I Am Convinced, Is That There Is No Longer A Poetical Audience Among The Higher Class Of Minds, That Moral, Political, And Physical Science Have Entirely Withdrawn From Poetry The Attention Of All Whose Attention Is Worth Having; And That The Poetical Reading Public Being Composed Of The Mere Dregs Of The Intellectual Community, The Most Sufficing Passport To Their Favour Must Rest On The Mixture Of A Little Easily-intelligible Portion Of Mawkish Sentiment With An Absolute Negation Of Reason And Knowledge.

Sir, I Have Quarrelled With My Wife; And A Man Who Has Quarrelled With His Wife Is Absolved From All Duty To His Country.