There Is A Remembrance Of The Dead

Good Temper, Like A Sunny Day, Sheds A Ray Of Brightness Over Everything; It Is The Sweetener Of Toil And The Soother Of Disquietude!

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

The Youthful Freshness Of A Blameless Heart.

Other Men Are Known To Posterity Only Through The Medium Of History, Which Is Continually Growing Faint And Obscure; But The Intercourse Between The Author And His Fellow-men Is Ever New, Active, And Immediate.

Others May Write From The Head, But He Writes From The Heart, And The Heart Will Always Understand Him.