God Has Thickly Strewn Infinity With Grandeur.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

Every Man's Road In Life Is Marked By The Grave Of His Personal Likings.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.

A Tender Sadness Drops Upon My Soul, Like The Soft Twilight Dropping On The World.