What joy is better than the news of friends?

I do what many dream of, all their lives

Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?

Rats They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles. Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

Look not down but up!

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

Imperfection means perfection hid.