My Books Kept Me From The Ring,

Half Of The Failures In Life Come From Pulling One's Horse When He Is Leaping.

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

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!

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

The Year's In Wane; There Is Nothing Adorning; The Night Has No Eve, And The Day Has No Morning; Cold Winter Gives Warning!