Vanity In Its Idler Moments Is Benevolent,

My Garden, With Its Silence And Pulses Of Fragrance That Come And Go On The Airy Undulations, Affects Me Like Sweet Music. Care Stops At The Gates, And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet, Lightning Deed, Not The Applauding Thunder At Its Heels That Men Call Fame.

My Friend Is Not Perfect-no More Than I Am-and So We Suit Each Other Admirable.

Death, Which We Are Accustomed To Consider An Evil, Really Acts For Us The Friendliest Part, And Takes Away The Commonplace Of Existence.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.