Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.

Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?

By myself walking, To myself talking.

I have had playmates, I have had companions; In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.