In My Garden I Spend My Days;

To Have To Die Is A Distinction Of Which No Man Is Proud.

Each Time We Love,we Turn A Nearer And A Broader Markto That Keen Archer, Sorrow, And He Strikes.

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

If We Were To Live Here Always, With No Other Care Than How To Feed, Clothe, And House Ourselves, Life Would Be A Very Sorry Business. It Is Immeasurably Heightened By The Solemnity Of Death.

A Man Gazing At The Stars Is Proverbially At The Mercy Of The Puddles In The Road.