The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

Old men love novelties; the last arriv'd Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Affliction is a good man's shining time.