Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray

I Cannot Conceive Why People Will Always Mix Up My Own Character And Opinions With Those Of The Imaginary Beings Which, As A Poet, I Have The Right And Liberty To Draw.

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

The Heart Ran O'er With Silent Worship Of The Great Of Old!-- The Dead, But Sceptred Sovereigns, Who Still Rule Our Spirits From Their Urns.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.