Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.

Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.

Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.