Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.

The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.

The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.