The spirit walks of every day deceased.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.