Every Hour Has Its End.

In Prosperous Times I Have Sometimes Felt My Fancy And Powers Of Language Flag, But Adversity Is To Me At Least A Tonic And Bracer.

Like The Dew On The Mountain, Like The Foam On The River, Like The Bubble On The Fountain, Thou Art Gone, And For Ever!

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.

When A Man Has Not A Good Reason For Doing A Thing, He Has One Good Reason For Letting It Alone.

November's Sky Is Chill And Drear, November's Leaf Is Red And Sear.