A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days - whatever there may be for the dust - the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence.

I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

Who then will explain the explanation?