It Was Not In The Winter Our

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So Dear, And Flesh And Blood So Cheap!

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

I Remember, I Remember The Fir-trees Dark And High; I Used To Think Their Slender Tops Were Close Against The Sky; It Was A Childish Ignorance, But Now 't Is Little Joy To Know I'm Farther Off From Heaven Than When I Was A Boy.

Some Dreams We Have Are Nothing Else But Dreams, Unnatural And Full Of Contradictions; Yet Others Of Our Most Romantic Schemes, Are Something More Than Fictions.