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

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

Affliction is a good man's shining time.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

A dedication is a wooden leg.