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

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.

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.

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.