What Is Mind? No Matter. What Is

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

The Best Of Friends Fall Out, And So His Teeth Had Done Some Years Ago.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

How Bravely Autumn Paints Upon The Sky The Gorgeous Fame Of Summer Which Is Fled!