But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
Coquetry is the champagne of love.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations