The World Loves A Spice Of Wickedness.

By The Shores Of Gitchee Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, Stood The Wigwam Of Nokomis, Daughter Of The Moon, Nokomis, Dark Behind It Rose The Forest, Rose The Black And Gloomy Pine-trees, Rose The Firs With Cones Upon Them; Bright Before It Beat The Water, Beat The Clear And Sunny Water, Beat The Shining Big-sea-water.

Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point The Rods Of Fortune-tellers; Youth Perpetual Dwells In Fountains, Not In Flasks, And Casks, And Cellars.

Time, Like A Preacher In The Days Of The Puritans, Turned The Hour-glass On His High Pulpit, The Church Belfry.

There Is No Grief Like The Grief That Does Not Speak.

The Men That Women Marry, And Why They Marry Them, Will Always Be A Marvel And A Mystery To The World.