The Fountain Of Beauty Is

Let All Thy Joys Be As The Month Of May,and All Thy Days Be As A Marriage Day.

Prize Not Thyself By What Thou Hast, But By What Thou Art; He That Values A Jewel By Her Golden Frame, Or A Book By Her Silver Clasps, Or A Man By His Vast Estate, Errs; If Thou Art Not Worth More Than The World Can Make Thee, Thy Redeemer Had A Bad Pennyworth, Or Thou An Uncurious Redeemer.

Sweet Tastes Have Sour Closes; And He Repents On Thorns That Sleeps In Beds Of Roses.

Even As The Needle That Directs The Hour, (touched With The Loadstone) By The Secret Power Of Hidden Nature, Points Upon The Pole; Even So The Wavering Powers Of My Soul, Touch'd By The Virtue Of Thy Spirit, Flee From What Is Earth, And Point Alone To Thee.

And What's A Life? - A Weary Pilgrimage, Whose Glory In One Day Doth Fill The Stage With Childhood, Manhood, And Decrepit Age.