This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

It's all a farce, - these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying.

The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned

Slight was the thing I bought, small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best - God! but the interest!

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in. A minute to smile and an hour to weep in. A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double. And that is life. A crust and a corner that makes love precious, With a smile to warm and tears to refresh us, And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter. And that is life.