The Thankful Receiver Bears A Plentiful Harvest.

The Little Ones Leaped, And Shouted, And Laugh'd And All The Hills Echoed

You Throw The Sand Against The Wind And The Wind Blows It Back Again.

All Futurity Seems Teeming With Endless Destruction Never To Be Repelled; Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.

Then The Parson Might Preach, & Drink, & Sing, And We'd Be As Happy As Birds In The Spring; And Modest Dame Lurch, Who Is Always At Church, Would Not Have Bandy Children, Nor Fasting, Nor Birch.

God Forbid That Truth Should Be Confined To Mathematical Demonstration!