Where's The Snow That Fell The Year

Too Little Is It Considered, While We Gaze On Aristocratic Beauty, How Much Good Food, Soft Lying, Warm Wrapping, Ease Of Mind, Have To Do With The Attractions Which Command Our Admiration.

For A Ballad's A Thing You Expect To Find Lies In.

When Once The Itch Of Literature Comes Over A Man, Nothing Can Cure It But The Scratching Of A Pen. But If You Have Not A Pen, I Suppose You Must Scratch Any Way You Can.

To Return After Long Years Of Painful Absence To Some Place Which Has Been The Scene Of Our Former Joys, And Whence The Force Of Circumstance, And Not Choice, Has Driven Us, Is Oppressive To The Heart.

The Neck On Which Diamonds Might Have Worthily Sparkled, Will Look Less Tempting When The Biting Winter Has Hung Icicles There For Gems.