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

I never saw so sweet a face. As that I stood before. My heart has left it dwelling place ... and can return no more.

Forgive me if, in friendship’s way, I offer thee a wreath of May.... [N]ourished by the dews of heaven.... So I have Ivy placed between, To prove that worth is ever green. The little blue Forget-me-not... Spring’s messenger in every spot, Smiling on all—"Remember me!

I long for scenes where man has never trod;... There to abide with my Creator, God.

If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am, and live with shadows tost.

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.