Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

Our Very Hopes Belied Our Fears, Our Fears Our Hopes Belied; We Thought Her Dying When She Slept, And Sleeping When She Died.

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

I Remember, I Remember, The House Where I Was Born, The Little Window Where The Sun Came Peeping In At Morn.

When Was Ever Honey Made With One Bee In A Hive?

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.