In A Wonderland They Lie, Dreaming As

Come, Hearken Then, Ere Voice Of Dread, With Bitter Tiding Laden, Shall Summon To Unwelcome Bed A Melancholy Maiden! We Are But Older Children, Dear, Who Fret To Find Our Bedtime Near.

I Wonder If The Snow Loves The Trees And Fields, That It Kisses Them So Gently? And Then It Covers Them Up Snug, You Know, With A White Quilt; And Perhaps It Says "go To Sleep, Darlings, Till The Summer Comes Again.

And My Heart Is Like Nothing So Much As A Bowl Brimming Over With Quivering Curds!

I Maintain That Any Writer Of A Book Is Fully Authorised In Attaching Any Meaning He Likes To A Word Or Phrase He Intends To Use. If I Find An Author Saying, At The Beginning Of His Book, "let It Be Understood That By The Word 'black' I Shall Always Mean 'white,' And By The Word 'white' I Shall Always Mean 'black,'" I Meekly Accept His Ruling, However Injudicious I Think It.

Everything Is Funny, If You Can Laugh At It.