When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
The spirit walks of every day deceased.
'T is impious in a good man to be sad.
Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.