Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last

Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The Misery Of Mortal Life.

We Twain Have Met Like The Ships Upon The Sea, Who Behold An Hour's Converse, So Short, So Sweet: One Little Hour! And Then, Away They Speed On Lonely Paths, Through Mist, And Cloud, And Foam, To Meet No More.

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

Men Praise Poverty, As The African Worships Mumbo Jumbo--from Terror Of The Malign Power, And A Desire To Propitiate At.

I Go Into My Library And All History Unrolls Before Me.