Bells are musics laughter.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
Fuss is the froth of business.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.
Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume: There's crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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