A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was

Come Live In My Heart, And Pay No Rent.

The Neck On Which Diamonds Might Have Worthily Sparkled, Will Look Less Tempting When The Biting Winter Has Hung Icicles There For Gems.

Where's The Snow That Fell The Year That's Fled--where's The Snow?

When Once The Itch Of Literature Comes Over A Man, Nothing Can Cure It But The Scratching Of A Pen. But If You Have Not A Pen, I Suppose You Must Scratch Any Way You Can.

Circumstances Are The Rulers Of The Weak; They Are But The Instruments Of The Wise.