Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature

In My Garden I Spend My Days; In My Library I Spend My Nights.

There Is Nothing Good In This World Which Time Does Not Improve.

Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem Of May.

I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet, Lightning Deed, Not The Applauding Thunder At Its Heels That Men Call Fame.

There Is A Certain Even-handed Justice In Time; And For What He Takes Away He Gives Us Something In Return. He Robs Us Of Elasticity Of Limb And Spirit, And In Its Place He Brings Tranquility And Repose—the Mild Autumnal Weather Of The Soul.