There is a harmony In autumn, and a luster in its sky...

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity.

Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Peace is in the grave.

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.