Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run

Experience Enables Me To Depose To The Comfort And Blessing That Literature Can Prove In Seasons Of Sickness And Sorrow.

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.

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.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

How Bless'd The Heart That Has A Friend. A Sympathizing Ear To Lend.