The Foundation Of Domestic Happiness Is Faith

Death Stands Above Me, Whispering Low I Know Not What Into My Ear; Of His Strange Language All I Know Is, There Is Not A Word Of Fear.

O Music! How It Grieves Me That Imprudence, Intemperance, Gluttony, Should Open Their Channels Into Thy Sacred Stream.

Children Are What The Mothers Are.

Fame Often Rests At First Upon Something Accidental, And Often, Too, Is Swept Away, Or For A Time Removed; But Neither Genius Nor Glory, Is Conferred At Once, Nor Do They Glimmer And Fall, Like Drops In A Grotto, At A Shout.

O What A Thing Is Age! Death Without Death's Quiet.