Absent Or Dead, Still Let A Friend

Where London's Column, Pointing At The Skies, Like A Tall Bully, Lifts The Head, And Lies.

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.

The Soul, Uneasy And Confin'd From Home, Rests And Expatiates In A Life To Come.

Why Did I Write? Whose Sin To Me Unknown Dipt Me In Ink, My Parents', Or My Own? As Yet A Child, Nor Yet A Fool To Fame, I Lisp'd In Numbers, For The Numbers Came.

The World Forgetting, By The World Forgot. Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind! Each Pray'r Accepted, And Each Wish Resign'd