None But God Can Fill The Perfect

He Hath No Power That Hath Not Power To Use.

Dewdrops, Nature's Tears, Which She Sheds In Her Own Breast For The Fair Which Die. The Sun Insists On Gladness; But At Night, When He Is Gone, Poor Nature Loves To Weep.

The Ground Of All Great Thoughts Is Sadness.

Oh, Could We Lift The Future's Sable Shroud.

Hell Is More Bearable Than Nothingness.