Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery Spray.

She Stood Breast-high Amid The Corn Clasp'd By The Golden Light Of Morn, Like The Sweetheart Of The Sun, Who Many A Glowing Kiss Had Won.

There Is A Silence Where Hath Been No Sound, There Is A Silence Where No Sound May Be,- In The Cold Grave, Under The Deep, Deep Sea, Or In The Wide Desert Where No Life Is Found.