As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then.

They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.

The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.