Bells are musics laughter.

We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.