The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.

Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.

I was Byron and Shakespeare formerly.

My fears are agitated to an extreme degree and the dread of death involves me in a stupor of chilling indisposition.

So dull and dark are the November days. The lazy mist high up the evening curled, And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze; The place we occupy seems all the world.

In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be; Where all the noises, that on peace intrude, Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee, Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.