Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads

Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The Misery Of Mortal Life.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

Men Praise Poverty, As The African Worships Mumbo Jumbo--from Terror Of The Malign Power, And A Desire To Propitiate At.