This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English Poet Who on his Death Bed in the Bitterness of his Heart at the Malicious Power of his Enemies Desired these words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.

Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.

How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.

It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.