The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
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.