It Is True, That It Is Not

The Emigrant's Way O'er The Western Desert Is Mark'd By Camp-fires Long Consum'd And Bones That Bleach In The Sunshine.

I Do Not Believe Anyone Can Be Perfectly Well, Who Has A Brain And A Heart

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

Every Man Has A Paradise Around Him Till He Sins, And The Angel Of An Accusing Conscience Drives Him From His Eden.

Good-night! Good-night! As We So Oft Have Said Beneath This Roof At Midnight, In The Days That Are No More, And Shall No More Return. Thou Hast But Taken Up Thy Lamp And Gone To Bed; I Stay A Little Longer, As One Stays To Cover Up The Embers That Still Burn.