The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

There Is No Instinct Like That Of The Heart.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

I Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!