In Proportion As A Man Is Selfish,

The Cemetery Is An Open Space Among The Ruins, Covered In Winter With Violets And Daisies. It Might Make One In Love With Death, To Think That One Should Be Buried In So Sweet A Place.

All Love Is Sweet, Given Or Received.

I Love All Waste And Solitary Places; Where We Taste The Pleasure Of Believing What We See Is Boundless, As We Wish Our Souls To Be.

That Sweet Sleep Which Medicines All Pain.

Whence Are We, And Why Are We? Of What Scene The Actors Or Spectators?