How fares it with the happy dead?

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.