Think Of The Man Who First Tried

I Plodded Conscientiously Through The Twenty-six Letters, And The Only Malady I Could Conclude I Had Not Got Was Housemaid's Knee.

I Can't Sit Still And See Another Man Slaving And Working. I Want To Get Up And Superintend, And Walk Round With My Hands In My Pockets, And Tell Him What To Do. It Is My Energetic Nature. I Can't Help It.

Truth And Fact Are Old-fashioned And Out-of-date, My Friends, Fit Only For The Dull And Vulgar To Live By. Appearance, Not Reality, Is What The Clever Dog Grasps At In These Clever Days. We Spurn The Dull-brown Solid Earth; We Build Our Lives And Homes In The Fair-seeming Rainbow-land Of Shadow And Chimera.

Seek Out Some Retired And Old-world Spot, Far From The Madding Crowd, And Dream Away A Sunny Week Among Its Drowsy Lanes - Some Half-forgotten Nook, Hidden Away By The Fairies, Out Of Reach Of The Noisy World - Some Quaint-perched Eyrie On The Cliffs Of Time, From Whence The Surging Waves Of The Nineteenth Century Would Sound Far-off And Faint.

Evil Thought Is A Dangerous Pet. It Is Safer To Play With It From Behind The Iron Bars Of Circumstance.