Rough Johnson, The Great Moralist.

No More We Meet In Yonder Bowers Absence Has Made Me Prone To Roving; But Older, Firmer Hearts Than Ours, Have Found Monotony In Loving.

When Age Chills The Blood, When Our Pleasures Are Past - For Years Fleet Away With The Wings Of The Dove - The Dearest Remembrance Will Still Be The Last, Our Sweetest Memorial The First Kiss Of Love.

The Heart Will Break, But Broken Live On.

Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies As Much A Part Of Me, As I Of Them?

A Sleep Without Dreams, After A Rough Day Of Toil, Is What We Covet Most; And Yet How Clay Shrinks Back From More Quiescent Clay! The Very Suicide That Pays His Debt At Once Without Installments (an Old Way Of Paying Debts, Which Creditors Regret) Lets Out Impatiently His Rushing Breath, Less From Disgust Of Life Than Dread Of Death.