He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society.
I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.
To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.
The beggar wears all colors fearing none.
Who first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down . . . . To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? . . . . Sabbathless Satan!