I Would Rather Have A Nod From

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.

This Is To Be Mortal, And Seek The Things Beyond Mortality.

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies As Much A Part Of Me, As I Of Them?