When We Risk No Contradiction, It Prompts

Thus Shadow Owes Its Birth To Light.

Fair Is The Kingcup That In Meadow Blows, Fair Is The Daisy That Beside Her Grows.

Give Me, Kind Heaven, A Private Station, A Mind Serene For Contemplation.

When If Or Chance Or Hunger's Powerful Sway Directs The Roving Trout This Fatal Way, He Greedily Sucks In The Twining Bait, And Tugs And Nibbles The Fallacious Meat. Now, Happy Fisherman; Now Twitch The Line! How Thy Rod Bends! Behold, The Prize Is Thine!

My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground, And Hard, Very Hard, Is My Fare, But That Which Grieves Me More Is The Coldness Of My Dear.