We Meet No Stranger, But Ourself.

Eden Is That Old-fashioned House We Dwell In Every Day Without Suspecting Our Abode Until We Drive Away.

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?

Beauty Crowds Me Till I Die.

It Is Finished, Is Never Said Of Us

Dying Is A Wild Night And A New Road.