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

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

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

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.

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

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