He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
The heart will break, but broken live on.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
That low vice, curiosity!
And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.