Glow-worms On The Ground Are Moving, As

Literary History Is The Great Morgue Where All Seek The Dead Ones Whom They Love, Or To Whom They Are Related.

The Eyes Of Spring, So Azure, Are Peeping From The Ground; They Are The Darling Violets, That I In Nosegays Bound.

Nature, Like A True Poet, Abhors Abrupt Transitions.

Out Of My Own Great Woe I Make My Little Songs.

Money Is The God Of Our Time, And Rothschild Is His Prophet.