Death is the quiet haven of us all.
Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.