The Waste Of Plenty Is

Man Yields To Death; And Man's Sublimest Works Must Yield At Length To Time.

Clouds On Clouds, In Volumes Driven, Curtain Round The Vault Of Heaven.

Tea, Late Dinners And The French Revolution. I Cannot Exactly See The Connection Of Ideas.

But Though First Love's Impassioned Blindness Has Passed Away In Colder Light, I Still Have Thought Of You With Kindness, And Shall Do, Till Our Last Goodnight. The Ever-rolling Silent Hours Will Bring A Time We Shall Not Know, When Our Young Days Of Gathering Flowers Will Be An Hundred Years Ago.

... Where The Greeks Had Modesty, We Have Cant; Where They Had Poetry, We Have Cant; Where They Had Patriotism, We Have Cant; Where They Had Anything That Exalts, Delights, Or Adorns Humanity, We Have Nothing But Cant, Cant, Cant.