Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.