Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
Bells are musics laughter.
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
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.
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.