Bells Are Musics Laughter.

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

Fuss Is The Froth Of Business.

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years, In All The Bliss That Life Endears