Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

Between The Dark And The Daylight, When The Night Is Beginning To Lower, Comes A Pause In The Day's Occupations, That Is Known As The Children's Hour.

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

Perhaps The Chief Cause Which Has Retarded The Progress Of Poetry In America, Is The Want Of That Exclusive Cultivation, Which So Noble A Branch Of Literature Would Seem To Require. Few Here Think Of Relying Upon The Exertion Of Poetic Talent For A Livelihood, And Of Making Literature The Profession Of Life. The Bar Or The Pulpit Claims The Greater Part Of The Scholar's Existence, And Poetry Is Made Its Pastime.

The Happy Should Not Insist Too Much Upon Their Happiness In The Presence Of The Unhappy.