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

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

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.

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

I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude.

Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude.