My Thoughts By Night Are Often Filled

The Present Is Our Own; But While We Speak, We Cease From Its Possession, And Resign The Stage We Tread On, To Another Race, As Vain, And Gay, And Mortal As Ourselves.

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.

The Mountain Sheep Are Sweeter, But The Valley Sheep Are Fatter. We Therefore Deemed It Meeter To Carry Off The Latter.

But Still My Fancy Wanders Free Through That Which Might Have Been.

But Though First Love's Impassioned Blindness Has Passed Away In Colder Light, I Still Have Thought Of You With Kindness, And Shall Do, Till Our Last Goodnight. The Ever-rolling Silent Hours Will Bring A Time We Shall Not Know, When Our Young Days Of Gathering Flowers Will Be An Hundred Years Ago.