Great Men Too Often Have

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.

The Moderate Are Not Usually The Most Sincere, For The Same Circumspection Which Makes Them Moderate Makes Them Likewise Retentive Of What Could Give Offence.

The Happiest Of Pillows Is Not That Which Love First Presses! It Is That Which Death Has Frowned On And Passed Over.

The Eyes Of Critics, Whether In Commending Or Carping, Are Both On One Side, Like A Turbot's.

I Strove With None, For None Was Worth My Strife. Nature I Loved And, Next To Nature, Art: I Warm'd Both Hands Before The Fire Of Life; It Sinks, And I Am Ready To Depart.