Never To Talk To Ones Self Is

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Oh, Mirth And Innocence! Oh, Milk And Water! Ye Happy Mixture Of More Happy Days!