Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery

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

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.

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

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'