The Dew, 'tis Of The Tears Which

The Long Days Are No Happier Than The Short Ones.

Write To The Mind And Heart, And Let The Ear Glean After What It Can.

The Beautiful Are Never Desolate; But Some One Alway Loves Them--god Or Man. If Man Abandons, God Himself Takes Them.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

It Matters Not How Long We Live But How.