Soft Is The Strain When Zephyr Gently

Pretty! In Amber To Observe The Forms Of Hairs, Of Straws, Or Dirt, Or Grubs, Or Worms! The Things, We Know, Are Neither Rich Nor Rare, But Wonder How The Devil They Got There.

The Bookful Blockhead, Ignorantly Read With Loads Of Learned Lumber In His Head.

A Family Is But Too Often A Commonwealth Of Malignants.

The Approach Of Night The Skies Yet Blushing With Departing Light, When Falling Dews With Spangles Deck'd The Glade, And The Low Sun Had Lengthen'd Ev'ry Shade.

Absent Or Dead, Still Let A Friend Be Dear.