I, Painting From Myself And To Myself,

Strike When Thou Wilt, The Hour Of Rest, But Let My Last Days Be My Best.

To Me At Least Was Never Evening Yet, But Seemed Far Beautifuller Than Its Day.

Oh Never Star Was Lost Here But It Rose Afar.

Mothers, Wives And Maids, These Be The Tools With Which Priests Manage Men.

Ever Judge Of Men By Their Professions. For Though The Bright Moment Of Promising Is But A Moment, And Cannot Be Prolonged, Yet If Sincere In Its Moment's Extravagant Goodness, Why, Trust It, And Know The Man By It, I Say,- Not By His Performance; Which Is Half The World's Work, Interfere As The World Needs Must With Its Accidents And Circumstances: The Profession Was Purely The Man's Own. I Judge People By What They Might Be,- Not Are, Nor Will Be.