The Years Keep Coming And

Lo, Sleep Is Good, Better Is Death--in Sooth The Best Of All Were Never To Be Born.

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.

Silence Is The Essential Condition Of Happiness.

Lyrical Poetry Is Much The Same An Every Age, As The Songs Of The Nightingales In Every Spring-time.

Our Sweetest Hopes Rise Blooming. And Then Again Are Gone, They Bloom And Fade Alternate, And So It Goes Rolling On. I Know It, And It Troubles My Life, My Love, My Rest, My Heart Is Wise And Witty, And It Bleeds Within My Breast.