He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that. T is an ill cure For lifes worst ills, to have no time to feel them. Where sorrow s held intrusive and turned out, There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
We figure to ourselves The thing we like; and then we build it up, As chance will have it, on the rock or sand, For thought is tired of wandering oer the world, And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.