Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.
If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?