Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

Behind The Steps That Misery Treads Approaching Comfort View: The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow Chastised By Sabler Tints Of Woe, And Blended Form, With Artful Strife, The Strength And Harmony Of Life.

Here Rests His Head Upon The Lap Of Earth, A Youth To Fortune And To Fame Unknown: Fair Science Frown'd Not On His Humble Birth, And Melancholy Mark'd Him For Her Own.

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.

If The Best Man's Faults Were Written On His Forehead, He Would Draw His Hat Over His Eyes.