Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.

Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow.

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.

The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.

A story of particular facts is a mirror which obscures and distorts that which should be beautiful; poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which it distorts.

It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.

The conceptions which any nation or individual entertains of the God of its popular worship may be inferred from their own actions and opinions, which are the subjects of their approbation among their fellow-men.