The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

Books are the best type of the influence of the past.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.