Forever Is Composed Of Nows.

Unto A Broken Heart No Other One May Go Without The High Prerogative Itself Hath Suffered Too.

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.

No Life Can Pompless Pass Away - The Lowliest Career To The Same Pageant Wends Its Way As That Exalted Here -

The Sailor Cannot See The North / But Knows The Needle Can.

I Have An Appetite For Silence.