And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.
He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.