Our Very Hopes Belied Our Fears, Our

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!

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

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.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

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