Is Death The Last Sleep?

As Long As The Fates Permit, Live Cheerfully.

Every Hour Has Its End.

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.

He Turn'd His Charger As He Spake, Upon The River Shore, He Gave His Bridle Reins A Shake, Said, "adieu For Evermore, My Love, And Adieu For Evermore."

Heap On More Wood! - The Wind Is Chill; But Let It Whistle As It Will, We'll Keep Our Christmas Merry Still.