Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."