The Sole Equality On Earth Is Death.

The Dew, 'tis Of The Tears Which Stars Weep, Sweet With Joy.

What Men Call Accident Is God's Own Part.

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.

Life's But A Means Unto An End, That End, Beginning, Mean, And End To All Things--god.

We Live In Deeds, Not Years; In Thoughts, Not Figures On A Dial. We Should Count Time By Heart Throbs. He Most Lives Who Thinks Most, Feels The Noblest, Acts The Best.