It Matters Not How Long We Live

Write To The Mind And Heart, And Let The Ear Glean After What It Can.

Oh, Could We Lift The Future's Sable Shroud.

When Pride Thaws, Look For Floods.

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.

Night Brings Out Stars As Sorrow Shows Us Truths.