When The Poet Died His Cat Was

I Looked Back At The Summit Of The Mountain, Which Seemed But A Cubit High In Comparison With The Height Of Human Contemplation, Were In Not Too Often Merged In The Corruptions Of The Earth.

Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is Nothing Sweet Which Does Not Presently End In Bitterness.

I Have Taken Pride In Others, Never In Myself.

Hitherto Your Eyes Have Been Darkened And You Have Looked Too Much, Yes, Far Too Much, Upon The Things Of Earth. If These So Much Delight You What Shall Be Your Rapture When You Lift Your Gaze To Things Eternal!

Suspicion Is The Cancer Of Friendship.