Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

The child shall become father to the man.

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.