Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years, In All The Bliss That Life Endears

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!

Spontaneously To God Should Turn The Soul, Like The Magnetic Needle To The Pole; But What Were That Intrinsic Virtue Worth, Suppose Some Fellow, With More Zeal Than Knowledge, Fresh From St. Andrew's College, Should Nail The Conscious Needle To The North?

The Year's In Wane; There Is Nothing Adorning; The Night Has No Eve, And The Day Has No Morning; Cold Winter Gives Warning!