A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In

Whoe'er Has Gone Thro' London Street, Has Seen A Butcher Gazing At His Meat, And How He Keeps Gloating Upon A Sheep's Or Bullock's Personals, As If His Own; How He Admires His Halves And Quarters--and His Calves, As If In Truth Upon His Own Legs Grown.

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Birds - November!

I Remember, I Remember, The House Where I Was Born, The Little Window Where The Sun Came Peeping In At Morn.

But Evil Is Wrought By Want Of Thought, As Well As Want Of Heart!