Bells are musics laughter.

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.

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.

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

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