Peace to these little broken leaves, That strew our common ground; That chase their tails, like silly dogs, As they go round and round. For though in winter boughs are bare, Let us not once forget Their summer glory, when these leaves Caught the great Sun in their strong net; And made him, in the lower air, Tremble - no bigger than a star!

Now shall I walk or shall I ride? 'Ride,' Pleasure said; 'Walk,' Joy replied.

It was the rainbow gave thee birth, and left thee all her lovely hues.

What sweet, what happy days had I,When dreams made Time Eternity!

Teetotallers lack the sympathy and generosity of men that drink.

Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day And dances by false glare at night; But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves To spread its wings in Nature's light.

But cats to me are strange, so strange I cannot sleep if one is near.