Death Is A Sleep That Ends Our

There Is No Lighter Burden, Nor More Agreeable, Than A Pen. Other Pleasures Fail Us Or Wound Us While They Charm, But The Pen We Take Up Rejoicing And Lay Down With Satisfaction, For It Has The Power To Advantage Not Only Its Lord And Master, But Many Others As Well, Even Though They Be Far Away - Sometimes, Indeed, Though They Be Not Born For Thousands Of Years To Come.

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

I Saw The Tracks Of Angels In The Earth: The Beauty Of Heaven Walking By Itself On The World.

Each Famous Author Of Antiquity Whom I Recover Places A New Offence And Another Cause Of Dishonor To The Charge Of Earlier Generations, Who, Not Satisfied With Their Own Disgraceful Barrenness, Permitted The Fruit Of Other Minds, And The Writings That Their Ancestors Had Produced By Toil And Application, To Perish Through Insufferable Neglect. Although They Had Nothing Of Their Own To Hand Down To Those Who Were To Come After, They Robbed Posterity Of Its Ancestral Heritage.

Alack Our Life, So Beautiful To See, With How Much Ease Life Losest, In A Day, What Many Years With Pain And Toil Amassed!