Fears Of Sinning Let In Thoughts Of

The Game Is Never Lost Till Won.

Let's Learn To Live, For We Must Die Alone.

Circles In Water As They Wider Flow The Less Conspicuous In Their Progress Grow, And When At Last They Trench Upon The Shore, Distinction Ceases And They're View'd No More.

A Sly Old Fish, Too Cunning For The Hook.

When Winter Stern, His Gloomy Front Uprears, A Sable Void The Barren Earth Appears; The Meads No More Their Former Verdure Boast, Fast-bound Their Streams, And All Their Beauty Lost; The Herds, The Flocks, In Icy Garments Mourn, And Wildly Murmur For The Spring's Return; From Snow-topp'd Hills The Whirlwinds Keenly Blow, Howl Through The Woods, And Pierce The Vales Below, Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies.