Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.

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

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

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence, For No Lonely Bird Would Sing Into His Hollow Ear From Woods Forlorn, Nor Lowly Hedge Nor Solitary Thorn;- Shaking His Languid Locks All Dewy Bright With Tangled Gossamer That Fell By Night, Pearling His Coronet Of Golden Corn.

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!