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

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

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.

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.