I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.

Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.

To Hope "When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my 'mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death

Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?