Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

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

Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.

Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

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