Clouds On Clouds, In Volumes Driven, Curtain

Man Yields To Death; And Man's Sublimest Works Must Yield At Length To Time.

Seamen Three! What Men Be Ye? Gotham's Three Wise Men We Be. Whither In Your Bowl So Free? To Rake The Moon From Out The Sea. The Bowl Goes Trim. The Moon Doth Shine, And Our Ballast Is Old Wine.

He Kept At True Good Humor's Mark The Social Flow Of Pleasure's Tide: He Never Made A Brow Look Dark, Nor Caused A Tear, But When He Died.

The Juice Of The Grape Is The Liquid Quintessence Of Concentrated Sunbeams.

Time, The Foe Of Man's Dominion, Wheels Around In Ceaseless Flight, Scattering From His Hoary Pinion Shades Of Everlasting Night.