A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!